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XovcU’s linternational Series 


Name and Fame 


BY 

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Authorised Edition ■ 


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NAME AND FAME 



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NAME AND FAME 


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Copyright, 1890, 

BY 

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BOOK L 


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NAME AND FAME 


CHAPTER I. 

HUSBAND AND WIFE. 

It was a brilliant day in June. The sky was cloudless and 
dazzlingly blue, but the heat of the sun’s rays was tempered 
by a deliciously cool breeze, and the foliage of the trees 
that clothe the pleasant slopes round the vivacious little 
town of Aix-les-Bains afforded plenty of shade to the pe- 
destrian. Aix was, as usual, very crowded and very gay. 
German potentates abounded : French notabilities were 
not wanting : it was rumored that English royalty was 
coming. A very motley crowd of divers nationalities drank 
the waters every morning and discussed the latest society 
scandal. Festivity seemed to haunt the very air of the 
place, beaming from the trim white villas with their smart 
green jalousies, the tall hotels with crudely tinted flags 
flying from their roofs, the cheery little shops with their 
cheerier dames de comptoir smiling complacently on the 
tourists who unwarily bought their goods. Ladies in gay 
toilets, with scarlet parasols or floating feathers, made vivid 
patches of color against the green background of the 
gardens, and the streets were now and then touched into 
picturesqueness by the passing of some half-dozen peasants 
who had come from the neighboring villages to sell their 
butter or their eggs. The men in their blue blouses were 
mostly lean, dark, and taciturn ; the women, small, black- 
eyed, and vivacious, with bright-colored petticoats, long 
earrings, and the quaintest of round white caps. The 
silvery whiteness of the lake, flashing back an answer to 


4 


NAME AND FAME. 


the sunlight, gave a peculiarly joyous radiance to the scene. 
For water is to a landscape what the eye is to the human 
countenance : it gives life and expression ; without it, the 
most beautiful features may be blank and uninteresting. 

But the brightness of the scene did not find an echo in 
every heart. 

“ Dame ! ” said a French waiter, who stood, napkin in 
hand, at a window of the Hotel Venat, watching the 
passers-by, “ there they go, that cold, sullen English pair, 
looking as if nothing on earth would make them smile 
again ! ” 

A bullet-headed little man in a white apron stepped up 
to the window and stared in the direction that Auguste’s 
eyes had taken. 

“ Tiens, done ! Quelle tournure ! But she is superb ! ” 
he exclaimed, as if in remonstrance. 

“ She is handsome — oui, sans doute ; but see how she 
frowns ! I like a woman who smiles, who coquettes, who 
knows how to divert herself — like Mademoiselle Lisette 
here, queen of my heart and life.” 

And Auguste bowed sentimentally to a pretty little 
chambermaid who came tripping up the stairs at that mo- 
ment, and laid his hand upon his heart. 

“You are too polite. Monsieur Auguste,” Lisette re- 
sponded amicably. “ And at whom are you gazing so 
earnestly? ” 

“ At the belle Anglaise — you can still see her, if you look 
— she is charmingly dressed, but ” 

“ She is magnificent ! simply magnificent,” murmured 
the bullet-headed Jean, who was not, like his friend, ena- 
mored of the pert Lisette. “ I have never seen so splendid 
an Englishwoman, never ! nor one who had so much the 
true Parisian air ! ” 

Lisette uttered a shrill little scream of laughter. “ Do 
you know the reason, mon ami ? She is not English at all : 
she is a compatriot. He — the husband — he is English ; 
but she is French, I tell you, French to the finger-tips.” 

“ Voyons ; what rooms have they ? ” 

“ They are an quatrieme — they are poor — poor,” said 
Lisette, with infinite scorn. “ I wait on them a little — not 
much ; they have been here three days, and one can see 

But the gentleman, he is generous. When madame 

gcplds, he gives me money to buy my forbearance j she 


JVAAI£ AND FAME. 


5 

has the temper of a demon, the tongue of a veritable 
fiend ! ” 

Ah ! He loves her, then ! ” said Auguste, putting his 
head on one side. 

Lisette snapped her fingers. “ Ah, oui ! He loves her 
so well that he will strangle her one of these days when she 
says a word too much and he is in his sombre mood ! 
Quiet as he is, I would not go too far with him, ce beau 
monsieur ! He will not be patient always — you will 
see ! ” 

She went on her way, and the waiters remained at the 
window in the corridor. The lady and gentlemen of whom 
they spoke had turned into the hotel garden, and were 
walking up and down its gravelled paths, apparently in 
silence. Auguste and Jean watched them, as if fascinated 
by the sight of the taciturn pair, who now and then were 
lost to sight behind a clump of trees or in some shady 
walk, presently reappearing in the full sunshine, with the 
air of those who wish for some reason or other to show 
themselves as much as possible. 

This, at least, was the impression produced by the air 
and gait of the woman ; not by those of the man. He 
walked beside her gravely, somewhat dejectedly, indeed. 
There was a look of resignation in his face, which con- 
trasted forcibly with the flaunting audacity visible in every 
gesture of the woman who was his wife. 

He was the less noticeable of the two, but still a hand- 
some man in his way, of a refined and almost scholarly 
type. He was tall, and although rather of slender than 
powerful build, his movements were characterized by the 
mingled grace and alertness which may be seen when well- 
proportioned limbs are trained to every kind of athletic 
exercise. His face, however, was that of the dreamer, not 
of the athlete. He had a fine brow, thoughtful brown eyes, 
a somewhat long nose with sensitive nostrils, a stern-set 
mouth, and resolute chin. The spare outlines of his face, 
well defined yet delicate withal, sometimes reminded 
strangers of Giotto’s frescoed head of Dante in his youth. 
But the mouth was partly hidden beneath a dark brown 
moustache ; a pity from the artistic point of view. Refine- 
ment was the first and predominating characteristic of his 
face ; thoughtful melancholy, the second. It was evident, 
even to the most casual observer, that this man was emin- 


6 


JVAME AND FAME. 


ently unfitted to be the husband of the woman at his 
side. 

For a woman she was unusually tall. She was also un- 
usually handsome. She had a magnificent figure, a com- 
manding presence, good features, hair, and eyes ; yet the 
impression that she produced was anything but pleasant. 
The flashing dark eyes were too bold and too defiant ; the 
carmine on her cheeks was artificially laid on, and her face 
had been dabbed with a powder puffin very reckless fashion. 
Her black hair was frizzed and tortured in the latest mode, 
and her dress made in so novel a style that it looked outre^ 
even at a fashionable watering-place. Dress, bonnet and 
parasol were scarlet of hue ; and the vivid tint was softened 
but slightly by the black lace which fell in cascades from 
her closely-swathed neck to the hem of her dress, fastened 
here and there by diamond pins. If it were possible that, 
as Lisette had said, Mr. and Mrs. Alan Walcott were poor, 
their poverty was not apparent in Mrs. Walcott’s dress. 
Black and scarlet were certainly becoming to her, but the 
effect in broad daylight was too startling for good taste. 
To a critical observer, moreover, there was something un- 
pleasantly suggestive in her movements : the way in which 
she walked and held her parasol, and turned her head from 
side to side, spoke of a desire to attract attention, and a 
delight in admiration even of the coarest and least compli- 
mentary kind. 

There was certainly something in the bearing of husband 
and wife that attracted notice. Her vivacity and her 
boldness, a certain weariness and reluctance in his air, as 
if he were paraded up and down these garden walks against 
his will, led others beside inquisitive French waiters to 
watch the movements of the pair. And they were in full 
view of several gazers when an unexpected and dramatic 
incident occurred. 

A man who had sauntered out of the hotel into the gar- 
dens directed his steps towards them, and met them face 
to face as they issued from one of the side-paths. He was 
not tall, but he was dapper and agile : his moustache curled 
fiercely, and his eyeglass was worn with something of an 
aggressive air. He was perfectly dressed, except th^at — for 
English taste — he wore too much jewellery ; and from the 
crown of his shining hat to the tip of his polished pointed 
boot he was essentially Parisian — a dandy of the Boule- 


NAME AND FAME, 


7 


vards, or rather, perhaps, of the Palais Royal — an exqui- 
site who prided himself upon the fit of his trousers and the 
swing of his Malacca cane. 

He paused as he met the Walcotts, and raised his hat 
with a true French flourish. The lady laughed, showing a 
row of very white, even teeth, and held out her hand. Her 
husband sprang forward, uttering an angry word of remon- 
strance or command. The Frenchman grinned insolently, 
and answered with a sneer. 

The Englishman seemed to gain in dignity as he replied. 
His wife laughed loudly and unpleasantly, however, and 
then, with a quick movement which proved him agile as a 
cat, the Frenchman struck him with his cane across the 
face. In another moment, Alan Walcott had taken him 
by the collar and wrested the cane from his hand. Whe- 
ther or no he would have administered the thrashing that 
the man deserved must remain an unsettled question, for 
hotel servants and functionaries came rushing to the rescue, 
guests flocked to the scene in hopes of further excitement, 
and all was bustle and confusion. Mrs. Walcott began to 
scream violently, as soon as she saw signs of an impending 
conflict, and was finally carried into the house in a fit of 
hysterics. 

A very pretty little altercation between the two comba- 
tants — who were separated with difliculty — and the land- 
lord and his myrmidons then followed. The police arrived 
rather late on the scene, but were speedily quieted by 
assurances that peace was restored, and by the transfer of 
a few coins from Alan Walcott’s pockets to their own. The 
aggressor, who gave his name as Henri de Hauteville, was 
politely requested to leave the Hotel Venat ; and Mr. 
Walcott declared his own intention of proceeding to Paris 
next morning. Accordingly the Frenchman speedily dis- 
appeared, but it was noticed that he dropped a word to 
his enemy, which Walcott answered by a bend of his head, 
and that he was seen shortly afterwards arm-in-arm with 
a young officer who was known to be an enthusiast in the 
matter of duelling. 

An hour later Alan Walcott was crossing the hall with a 
hurried step and a face expressive of deep anxiety and 
vexation, when he encountered a stout, fair Englishman, 
who greeted him with effusion. 

“ You here, Walcott? Never thought of meeting you.'' 


8 


JVAME AND FAME, 


“ I’m glad to see you, Dalton: I was longing at that 
very moment for some one to act as my friend.” 

“ Not in the conventional meaning, I hope,” laughed 
Dalton. “ Your way of putting it suggests a duel — which 
no Englishman of any sense would embark in, I should 
hope ! ” 

Dalton was a fresh-colored, blue-eyed man, of nearly 
thirty years of age. His frankness of manner and shrewd- 
ness of expression contrasted forcibly with the subtle 
dreaminess characteristic of Alan Walcott’s face. Alan 
eyed him curiously, as if doubtful whether he should pro- 
ceed. 

“lam not altogether an Englishman,” he said presently, 
“ which may account in your eyes for some lack of sense. 

I want you, as a friend, in the most conventional manner 
possible. Come out with me and let us talk it over.” 

The two men went out and talked together for upwards 
of an hour. When they separated the expression of their 
faces afforded a curious contrast. Alan looked defiant, 
resolved, almost triumphant ; but Brooke Dalton went on 
his way wagging his head in a depressed and melancholy 
manner, as if his soul were afflicted by misgivings of many 
kinds. 

Mr. Alan Walcott had said that he should leave Aix-les- 
Bains next day, but the state of his wife’s health rendered 
it impossible for her to quit the hotel, and he could not 
very well separate himself from her. She continued for 
some time in shrieking hysterics, varied by fainting fits ; 
and when she became quieter, under the influence of a 
soporific administered by the doctor, she declared herself 
quite too ill and exhausted to rise from her bed. Her 
husband remained with her night and day, until the second 
morning, when he escaped from her sight and ken for a 
couple of hours, and absolutely refused to tell her where 
he had been. His refusal seemed to produce a quieting 
effect upon her. She became very still, and lay watching 
him, with a sullen, puzzled look in her great dark eyes. 
He took up a paper and began to read, with an assump- 
tion of complete calmness and unconcern ; but she saw 
that he was paler than usual, and that his hand shook a 
little as he turned the pages of his Galigfia?ii. Presently 
she asked, in a subdued voice, for something to drink. 


NAME AND FAME, 


f 


He brought her a glass of claret and water, and she raised 
herself a little on one arm to take it from him. Suddenly 
she uttered a loud cry, and fell back gasping upon her 
pillows. 

Mon Dieu ! ” she cried, ‘‘ there is blood upon your 
cuff.” 

Alan looked down hastily. It was true enough : his white 
cuff was stained with red. 

“You have killed him!” she said. “You have mur- 
dered him, you wretch, you murderer ” 

“ Not at all,” said Walcott, with the greatest composure. 
“ Upon my word, I rather wish I had. I think he deserved 
it. He has got off very easily.” 

“ You had a meeting ? ” his wife shrieked, her eyes be- 
ginning to flash with rage. 

“ We had a meeting. It Was for that purpose that I left 
for two hours this morning. You don’t suppose that I 
should let myself be struck in the face without demanding 
satisfaction ? I have enough French blood in my veins 
to think it a very natural way of settling such a quarrel 

“ Was he hurt ? ” she asked, without waiting for him to 
finish. 

“ Very slightly. A sword-cut on the shoulder. The 
seconds interposed, or we should have gone on ” 

“ I have no doubt you wanted to kill him ! I shall de- 
nounce you to the police 1 ” 

“ As you please,” . said her husband indifferently, 
taking up his paper. “ But M. de Hauteville has retired 
from the scene : he had a carriage waiting, and has crossed 
the frontier by this time. I assure you he is perfectly safe 
in Switzerland.” 

There was a taunt in his voice which exasperated his 
wife’s temper almost to madness. 

“ Scelerat ! ” she said, in a hissing, unnatural voice. 
“ You would have killed him if you could ? Beware of my 
vengeance then, for I swear that you shall suffer as he has 
suffered — and worse things too ! ” 

Alan shrugged his shoulders. He had heard threats of 
this kind too often to be greatly moved by them. And 
Mrs. Walcott, after a few ineffectual remarks of the same 
sort, began to sob violently, and finally to work herself 


10 


JVAME AND FAME. 


into another hysterical fit, during which her husband coolly 
rang the bell, and left her to Lisette’s not very tender care. 

When he returned she was once more quiet and subdued. 
He noticed that she was reading a letter, which, at his en- 
trance, she thrust — somewhat ostentatiously — beneath her 
pillow. He took no notice. He was tired of taking notice. 
As a rule, he let her go her own way. He had been 
married for three years, and he had learned that, save in 
exceptional circumstances, it was better not to interfere. 
He was relieved, and somewhat surprised, when she sud- 
denly declared herself better, and wishful to leave her bed. 
Before long she was sitting at an open window, with a cup 
of black coffee and a flask of cognac on a table before her, 
while Alan fanned her with a great red fan and occasion- 
ally bathed her temples with eau-de-cologne. He paid her 
these attentions with an air of gentle gravity which became 
him well, but the slight fold between his brows betokened 
irritation and weariness. 

Cora Walcott seemed to delight in keeping him at her 
beck and call. She did not let him stir from her side for 
the whole of that sultry summer day. She put on a soft 
and languid manner : she shed tears and tried to say coax- 
ing things, which were very coldly received ; for there was 
a hard and evil look in her fine dark eyes that went far to 
neutralize the effect of her cdlifieries. Once, indeed, 
when Alan had gone into an adjoining room to fetch a 
vinaigrette, her true feeling found its vent in a few expres- 
sive words. 

“ Sacre,” she muttered, drawing back the red lips from 
her white teeth, with the snarl of a vicious dog, how I 
hate you, cochon ! How I wish that you were dead ! ” 

And then she smoothed her brows, and smiled at him as 
he re-entered the room. 

In the course of the evening she made the suggestion 
that they should leave Aix-les-Bains next day. 

“ Certainly,” Alan answered, more warmly than usual. 
“ And where shall we go ? ” 

“ Oh, to Paris, I suppose. To Dijon first, of course — 
if I am strong enough to travel so far.” 

Alan was eager to make his preparations for departure, 
and pleased to find that his wife was as ready as he to has- 
ten theni. Only in one point did her behavior strike him 
as peculiar. She announced that she meant to leave Aix- 


J\rAM£ AND FAME. 


11 


les-Bains at an early hour, lunch and rest at Culoz, and go 
on to Dijon by the afternoon train. 

“ But why Culoz? Nobody stops at Culoz,” he remon- 
strated. 

“Why not Culoz? There is an inn. I suppose we can 
get some lunch,” she answered. “ Besides, I have always 
meant to go there, to look at the chateau on the hill ! You 
English like ‘views,’ do you not? The ‘view’ must be 
magnificent.” 

She had never formerly shown any interest in scenery, 
and Alan stared at her for a moment with a puzzled look. 
If Henry de Hauteville had been likely to join her at Culoz 
he could have understood this whim of hers ; but de Haute- 
ville was safely lodged by this time in the nearest Swiss 
canton, and not at all likely to intercept their journey. 
He did her bidding, however, without comprehension of 
her reasons, as he had done many a time before. Again, 
he was discomfited by her behavior in the train, shortly 
after their departure from the station at Aix-les-Bains. 
She suddenly flung herself back in the corner of the coupe 
and burst into a prolonged fit of noisy laughter, which 
seemed as if it would choke her by its violence. Alan 
questioned and remonstrated in vain. Fortunately, they 
had the coupe to themselves ; but the laughter continued 
so long that he began to doubt his wife’s sanity, as well as 
her self-control. At last she sat up and wiped her eyes. 

“ You will know why I laugh some day, mon ami,” she 
remarked. “ Till then, ask no questions.” 

Alan was not disposed to ask them. He remained silent, 
and his silence continued until the little station of Culoz 
was reached. 

“ We change here, of course,” he said. “ But why should 
we leave the station ? ” 

“ Do you want to starve me ? ” his wife inquired angrily. 
“ We will go to the inn. There is an inn on the road to the 
village; I asked about it yesterday.” 

Very few English tourists think it worth their while to 
spend any time at Culoz, pretty little place although it be ; 
and the landlady of the quaint auberge, with its wooden, 
vine-grown piazza, was somewhat amazed and distracted 
by the appearance of foreign visitors. The dining-room 
seemed to be full of peasants in blue blouses, who had 
been attending a fair ; but lunch was served to Mr. and 


12 


NAME AND FAME. 


Mrs. Walcott in the open air, on the verandah. Cora 
grumbled openly at the. simple fare provided ; and Alan 
thought how cliarming would be the scene and the rustic 
meal if only his companion were more congenial. For 
himself, he was quite satisfied with the long French loaf, 
the skinny chicken, the well-salted cream cheese, and the 
rough red vin du pays. The blue sky, the lovely view of 
mountain and valley, lake and grove, the soft wind stirring 
the vine leaves on the trellis-work of the verandah, would 
have given him unmixed delight if he had been alone. 
But all was spoiled by the presence of an unloved and un- 
loving wife. 

The road to the chateau leads upwards from Culoz, and 
is a trifle hot and dusty. Alan wondered dumbly whether 
Cora had an object in dragging him so far away from the 
inn, and what that object was. But he took small annoy- 
ances patiently. It was something gained, at least, that his 
wife should seem content. Anything was better than tear- 
ing rage or violent hysterical weeping, which were the 
phases of temper most frequently presented to his view. 
On this occasion she appeared pleased and happy. He 
surprised a touch of malignity in her tones, a glance of 
evil meaning now and then; but he did not greatly care. 
Cora could not keep a secret. If she had any ill-will or ill 
intention towards him he was sure to know it before long. 

“ I am tired,” she said at last, abruptly. “ Let us sit 
down and rest. Look, here is an entrance into the park 
of the chateau. Shall we go in ? ” 

“ Is it open to the public? ” said Alan, with an English- 
man’s instinctive fear of trespassing. For, although he 
had had a French grandmother, and sometimes boasted 
himself of French descent, he was essentially English in 
his ideas. Cora laughed him to scorn. 

“ I go where I will,” she said, “ and nobody finds it in 
his heart to turn me out. Courage, mon ami, I will pro- 
tect you, if necessary. Follow me ! ” 

Piqued by her tone, he opened the gate for her, and 
they passed from the hot, white road into the green de- 
mesnes of the Count who owned the chateau above Culoz. 
It struck Alan that his wife knew the way wonderfully well. 
She turned without hesitation into a path which led them 
to a wooden seat shaded by two great trees, and so situat- 


NAME AND FAME. 


»3 


ed that it could not be seen by anyone passing on the high 
road. Here she seated herself and looked up at her hus- 
band with a defiant smile. 

“ You have been here before ? ” he said suddenly. 

She nodded. Precisely, mon ami, I have been here be- 
fore. And with whom? With M. de Hauteville, when 
you imagined me suffering from a migraine a few days ago. 
Surely you did not think that it was his first appearance 
when he arrived at the hotel, the day before yesterday ? ” 

“ I do not wish to discuss M. de Hauteville,” said Alan 
turning away. 

“ But perhaps I wish to discuss him. We discussed 
you at full length — that day last week. We chronicled 
your vices, your weaknesses, your meannesses in detail. 
One thing I might have told him, which I left out — 
the fact that you are no gentleman, not even bourgeois 
— a mere peasant clown. He would not have let you 
measure swords with him if he had known the baseness of 
your origin, my friend ! ” 

Alan’s lips moved as if he would have spoken, but he 
restrained himself. He saw that she wanted him to res- 
pond, to lose his temper, to give her some cause of com- 
plaint, some opening for recrimination ; and he resolved 
that he would not yield to her desire. She might abuse 
him as she would and he would not reply. She would 
cease when she was tired — and not till then. 

“ You are a mean-spirited creature ! ” she said, her eyes 
flashing hatred at him as she spoke. “ You have chained 
me to you all these years, although you know that I loathe 
the very sight of you, that I have worshiped Henri, my 
lover, all the while. Who but a base, vile wretch would 
not have given me my freedom ? You have known all the 
time that he loved me, and you have pretended ignorance 
because you did not want to let me go. From the mo- 
ment I found this out, I have hated and despised you. 
You have no courage, no spirit ; there is nothing even to 
be afraid of in you. You would be brutal if you dared, 
but you do not dare. You can be spiteful and treacherous 
and villainous, that is all. And I hate you for all that you 
are and all that you do not dare to be ! ” 

Alan ground his teeth, in a moment’s raging desire to 
bring , the woman to her senses by some actual exertion of 
his physical strength. But the impulse of anger lasted only 


M 


//AMJS AND FAME. 


for a moment. He knew that half her rage was simulated 
— that she was lashing herself up in preparation for some 
tremendous crisis, and all that he could do was to wait for 
it in silence. She had risen to her feet as she spoke. He 
rose too and leaned against the trunk of a tree, while she 
stormed and raved like a madwoman for some minutes in 
front of him. 

“ Now,” she said at last, “ you know what I think of 
you, how I hate you, how I despise you. But it is not 
enough. My father shot down twenty of his enemies in the 
siege of Paris. Do you think that his daughter is a cow- 
ard, to be trampled on by a brutal, cold-blooded English- 
man ? No ! Because I hate you, and because you have 
tried to kill the man I love, and because you are too mean 
and vile to live — 1 will \i\\\you ! ” 

Her hand darted to the bosom of her dress. Before 
Alan could stop her — almost before he realized what she 
was doing — she had drawn out a little pistol, cocked it, 
and pulled the trigger. But her hurry at the last moment 
spoiled her aim. Alan felt a sting in the left arm, and 
knew that she had so far succeeded in her intentions ; but 
with his right hand he was able to snatch the pistol from 
her, and to fling it far into the brushwood. 

Then came the reaction. She burst into loud, scream- 
ing sobs and tears, and flung herself on the ground, where 
she writhed for a time like one in convulsions. Alan 
seated himself, feeling somewhat sick and faint, and waited 
for the storm to spend itself. Some time elapsed before 
she became calm ; but at last she raised herself panting 
from the ground and looked half timorously at her husband. 
His coolness and quietness often enraged, but now and 
then it frightened her. 

“ If you have not another pistol with you,” said Alan, 
“ you cannot kill me just now. Perhaps you have done 
enough to satisfy yourself for the moment. What do you 
propose to do next ? ” 

“ What do you mean to do ? ” she asked sullenly. “ Of 
course, you can follow me and give me up to the police.” 

“ I shall not do that.” 

* “ I will not return with you,” she said in a furious tone. 

“ That is natural,” Alan agreed politely. “ What then ? ” 

“ I told you I knew this place,” she answered. “ I am 
to meet a friend upon the road, half a mile further on. I 


JVAM£ AJVD FAME. 


*5 

am going there now. He will take me to the next station 
on the line.” 

“ Admirably planned ! ” said Alan. “ Every detail fits 
in to perfection.” 

“ And I shall never come back,” she said, looking at 
him spitefully. 

For answer, he raised his hat. She turned on her heel, 
went down the slope towards the road, and disappeared. 
It was a strange parting between husband and wife. Not 
a single feeling of reluctance existed in the mind of either ; 
only a fixed resolve to have done with each other hence- 
forth and for ever. 

Alan bound up his wounds as well as he could, and 
retraced his steps to Culoz. He would have done better, 
possibly, to avoid the place. People stared at him curious- 
ly as he passed them by. Why had he come back alone ? 
What had he done with the beautiful lady who had ac- 
companied him when he set forth ? 

“ He, monsieur,” tried the black-eyed dame of the au- 
berge, leaning over the rail of the verandah, as he passed : 
“ oil done est madame ? Est-ce qu’elle ne revient pas ? ” 

“ Madame est partie,” said Alan continuing his walk 
without turning round. The aubergiste looked after him 
in amaze. Where could madame have gone ? There was 
no other road to the station, and she had been watching 
for the English milord and his lady for the last hour and a 
half! What had he done with madame? 

It was a matter of speculation which lasted her for many 
a day, and was often recounted to newcomers. It became 
the general opinion at Culoz that the Englishman had in 
some unaccountable manner killed his wife and disposed 
mysteriously of her body. But although search was made 
for it high and low, the murdered body was never found. 
Nevertheless, the stranger’s guilt remained a tradition of 
the neighborhood, and the story of that marvelous disap- 
pearance is related by the villagers unto this day. 

Alan went on his way rejoicing, although in somewhat 
grim and shamefaced wise. For three years he had been 
a miserable slave. Now he was free 1 And he determined 
that he would never submit to bonds agaim. 


JVIAM/i AND FAME, 


i6 


CHAPTER 11. 

AT THE ECTORY. 

About the very time when Alan Waicott, at the age of 
three-and-twenty, was making a hasty match with the 
daughter of a French refugee — a match bitterly deplored 
before the first few weeks of married life were over — events, 
which afterwards very greatly affected his career, were 
quickly shaping themselves in a sleepy little English vil- 
lage not far from the place where he was born. 

Angleford, a mere handful of red-brick cottages, five 
miles from a railway station, was little known to the outer 
world. Its nearest market-town was Dorminster, and the 
village of Thorley lay between Angleford and the county 
town. Birchmead, a hamlet which had some repute of its 
own as a particularly healthy place, stood further down the 
river on which Angleford was built, and its merits general- 
ly threw those of neighboring villages into the shade. 

But Angleford was in itself a pretty little nook, and its 
inhabitants somewhat prided themselves on its seclusion 
from the world. These inhabitants, it must be confessed, 
were few. It had once been a larger and more important 
place, but had gradually dwindled away until the village 
contained less than three hundred persons, chiefly laborers 
and small shop-keepers. Beside these, there were the 
doctor, and his wife, the rector and his family, and the 
squire — a childless widower, who was of rather less account 
than anybody else in the parish. 

The Rectory was a rambling, long, low, red-brick house ^ 
standing in prettily-wooded grounds, bordered by the river, ; 
on the other side of which lay the park belonging to ' 
the squire. The park ran for some distance on both 
sides of the stream, and the Rectory grounds were, 
so to speak, taken out of the very midst of the squire’s ^ 
demesne. The continuation of wooded ground on . 
either side the narrow winding river made the place par- ( 
ticularly picturesque ; and it was a favorite amusement for ) 


JVAME AND FAME. 


17 


the rector’s son and daughter to push a rather crazy boat 
out of the little boat-house at the foot of the garden, and 
row up and down those reaches of the stream ‘‘ between 
the bridges,” which were navigable. One of the bridges 
warned them of the weir, which it was not very safe to 
approach ; and beyond the other, three miles further down 
and close to Birchmead, the stream was shallow and 
clogged with reeds. But within these limits there was a 
peaceful tranquil beauty which made the boat a favorite 
resting place for the Rectory people during the long summer 
evenings and afternoons. 

It was two o’clock on a late autumn afternoon, when a girl 
of sixteen came out of the Rectory door, which always stood 
hospitably open in fine weather, and walked to the boat- 
house, as if intending to launch out upon the water. The 
day was sunny on the whole, but not cloudless: the, sun 
shone out brightly every now and then, and was again 
obscured by a filmy haze, such as rises so easily from the 
low-lying land in Essex. But the golden haze softened the 
distant outlines of wood and meadow, and the sun’s beams 
rested tenderly upon the rapidly stripping branches, where 
a few rustling leaves still told of their departed glories. The 
long undefined shadows of the trees stretched far across the 
wide lawn, scarcely moving in the profound stillness of the 
air ; and a whole assembly of birds kept up a low-toned 
conversation in the bushes, as if the day were hardly bright 
enough to warrant a full chorus of concerted song. It was 
a tender, wistful kind of day, such as comes sometimes in 
the fall of the year, before the advent of frost. And a cer- 
tain affinity with the day was visible in the face of the girl 
who had walked down to the riverside. There was no 
melancholy in her expression : indeed, a very sweet and 
happy smile played about the corners of her sensitive 
mouth ; but a slightly wistful look in the long-lashed grey 
eyes lent an unconscious pathos to the delicate face. But, 
although delicate,*the face was anything but weak. The 
features were clearly cut ; the mouth and chin expressed 
decision as well as sensibility ; and beneath the thick, fine 
waves of shining brown hair, the forehead was broad and 
well-developed. AVithout pretension to actual beauty or 
any kind of perfection, the face was one likely to attract 
and then to charm ; gentleness, thoughtfulness, intellectual 
power, might be read in those fair features, as well as an 


i8 


^/^AM£ AND FAME, 


almost infantine candor and innocence, and the subtle and 
all too-transient bloom of extreme youth. Her hair, which 
constituted one of her best “ points,” was simply parted in 
the middle, fastened with a clasp at the nape of her neck, 
and then allowed to fall in a smooth, shining shower down 
to her waist. Mrs. Campion, who had been something of 
a beauty in her young days, was given to lamenting that 
Lettice’s hair was not golden, as hers had been j but the 
clear soft brown of the girl’s abundant tresses had a 
beauty of its own ; and, as it waved over her light woollen 
frock of grey-green hue, it gave her an air of peculiar ap- 
propriateness to the scene — as of a wood-nymph, who bore 
the colors of the forest-trees from which she sprang. 

Such, at any rate, was the fancy of a man whose canoe 
came shooting down the river at this moment, like an arrow 
from a bow. He slackened pace as he came near the 
Rectory garden, and peered through the tangled branches 
which surrounded tire old black boat-house, to catch 
another glimpse of Lettice. He wondered that she did not 
notice him : his red and white blazer and jaunty cap made 
him a somewhat conspicuous object in this quiet country 
place; and she must have heard the long strokes of his 
oars. But she remained silent, apparently examining the 
fastenings of the boat ; absorbed and tranquil, with a 
happy smile upon her lips. 

“ Good afternoon. Miss Campion : can I help you there 
in any way?” he shouted at. last, letting his boat slide 
past the boat-house entrance, and then bringing it round 
to the little flight of grassy steps cut in the bank from the 
lawn to the river. 

Oh, good afternoon, Mr. Dalton. Thank you, no ; I 
don’t want any help,” said Lettice ; but the young man had 
already set foot upon the lawn and was advancing towards 
her. He was the nephew and heir of the childless Squire 
at Angleford Manor, and he occasionally spent a few 
weeks with his uncle in the country. Ofd Mr. Dalton was 
not fond of Angleford, however, and the Campions did not 
see much of him and his nephew. 

Brooke Dalton was six-and-twenty, a manly, well-looking 
young fellow, with fair hair and bright blue eyes. He was 
not very tall, and had already begun to develop a ten- 
dency towards stoutness, which gave him considerable 
trouble in after years. At present he kept it down by 


A'AME AND FAME. 


19 


heavy doses of physical exercise, so that it amounted only 
to a little unusual fullness of body and the suspicion of a 
double chin. His enemies called him fat. His friends 
declared that his sunshiny look of prosperity and good- 
humor was worth any amount of beauty, and that it would 
be a positive loss to the world if he were even a trifle 
thinner. And Brooke Dalton was a man of many friends. 

Lettice greeted him with a smile. “ So you are here 
again,” she said. 

“ Yes, I’ve been here a day or two. Have you heard 
from Sydney yet? ” 

“ No, and we are dreadfully anxious. But papa says 
we shall hear very soon now.” 

“ I don’t suppose you need have the slightest anxiety. 
Sydney is sure to do well : he was always a clever fellow.” 

“ Yes, but he has had no teaching except from papa : 
and papa torments himself with the idea that there may be 
better teachers than himself at Cambridge — which I am 
sure there couldn’t be. And I am sure he will be disap- 
pointed if Sydney does not get at least an exhibition, 
although he tries to pretend that he will not mind.” 

“ If he does not get it this year, he will be the surer of 
it next time.” 

“ Yes,” said Lettice rather doubtfully. “ But I wish 
papa were not quite so anxious.” 

“ Did he go to Cambridge with Sydney ?” 

“ Yes, and stayed for a day or two j but he said he was 
rather glad to get home again — there had been so many 
changes since he was there.” 

“ Here he comes,” said Brooke, turning round. 

The rector was a dignifled-looking man, with a tall 
figure, handsome features, and hair and beard which had 
of late been growing very grey. He greeted ’Dal ton cor- 
dially, and at once began to speak of his hopes and expect- 
ations for his son. To all of these Dalton responded 
good-humoredly. “ Sydney has plenty of brains : he is 
is sure to do well,” he said. 

‘‘ Oh, I don’t know — I don’t know. I’ve been his only 
tutor, and I may not have laid the foundations with suffi- 
cient care. I shall not be at all surprised if he fails. 
Indeed ” — with a transparent affectation of indifference — 
“ I shall not be sorry to have him back for another year. 
He is not quite eighteen, you know. And Lettice will be 
glad to have him again.” 


20 


NAME AND FAME, 


“ But I want him to succeed ! ” said Lettice eagerly. 

“ Of course you do. And he will succeed,” said Brooke ; 
an assurance which caused her to flash a glad look ot gra- 
titude to him in reply. 

“ Lettice has been Sydney’s companion in his studies,” 
said Mr. Campion, patting her hand gently \yith his long 
white fingers. “ She has been very industrious and has 
got on very well, but I daresay she will be pleased to have 
a holiday when he is gone.” 

“Yes, I daresay,” said Brooke; and then, looking at 
Lettice, he saw the manifestation of some strong feeling 
which he did not understand. The girl flushed hotly and 
withdrew her hand from her father’s arm. The tears sud- 
denly came into her eyes. 

“ I never wanted a holiday,” she said, in a hurt tone. 

“ No, no, you were always a good girl,” returned her 
father absently — his eyes had wandered away from her to 
the high-road beyond the glebe. “ But of course there 
is a limit to a girl’s powers ; she can’t compete with a boy 
beyond a certain point. Is not that a cab, Lettice ? Surely 
it must be Sydney, and he has came at last. Well, now we 
shall know the result ! ” 

“ I’ll go to the fence and look,” said Lettice, running 
away. The tears of mortification and distress were still 
smarting in her eyes. Why should her father depreciate 
her to their neighbor because she was a girl? She did not 
mind Mr. Dalton’s opinion of her, but it was hard that her 
father should give her no credit for the work that she had 
done in the study at his side. Step by step she had kept 
pace with her brother: sometimes he had excelled her, 
sometimes she thought . that she was outstripping him. 
Now in the hour of his possible success (of which she 
would be proud and glad), why should her father seem to 
undervalue her powers and her industry? They would 
never bring her the guerdon that might fall to Sydney’s lot ; 
but she felt that she, too, had a right to her father’s 
praise. 

She had been vaguely hurt during Sydney’s absence to 
find that Mr. Campion did not seem disposed to allow her 
to go on working alone with him. “ Wait, my dear, wait,” 
he had said to her, when she came to him as usual, “ let 
us see how Sydney’s examination turns out. If he comes 


NAME AND FAME, 


21 


back to us for another year you can go on with him. If 
not — well, you are a girl, it does not matter so much for 
you; and your mother complains that you do not sit with 
her sufficiently. Take a holiday just now, we will go on 
when Sydney comes back.” 

But in this, Lettice’s first separation from her beloved 
brother, she had no heart for a holiday. She would have 
been glad of hard work to take her out of herself. She 
was anxious, sad, desceuvree^ and if she had not been 
taught all her life to look on failure in an examination as 
something disgraceful, she would have earnestly hoped 
that Sydney might lose the scholarship for which he was 
competing. 

Brooke Dalton' saw that his presence was scarcely 
desired just then, and took his leave, meditating as he 
pulled up the river on Lettice’s reddened cheeks and pretty 
tear-filled eyes. “ I suppose she thinks she’ll miss her 
brother when he goes away,” he decided at length, “and 
no doubt she will, for a time ; but it is just as well — what 
does a girl want with all that Latin and Greek ? It will 
only serve to make her forget to brush her hair and wear a 
frock becomingly. Of course she’s clever, but I should 
not care for that sort of cleverness in a sister — or a wife.” 
He thought again of the girl’s soft grey eyes. But he had 
a hundred other preoccupations, and her image very soon 
faded from his brain. 

Lettice ran to the fence to look at the cab, but Mr. 
Campion turned at once to the gateway and walked out 
into the road. He had not been mistaken, it was Sydney, 
indeed ; and as soon as the young fellow saw his father he 
stopped the vehicle, told the driver to go on to the Rectory 
with his portmanteau, and turned to his father with a tri- 
umphant smile. Lettice did not meet the pair for a minute 
or two, so the son’s communication was made first to Mr. 
Campion alone. 

“ Here I am, sir ! ” was the young man’s greeting, 
“ turned up again like a bad half-penny.” 

“ Welcome anyhow, my boy,’' said the rector, “ and 
sterling coin. I’ll warrant, however much you may malign 
yourself. ” He was too nervous to ask a direct question 
about his son’s success. “ We have been very dull without 
you. Lettice is counting on your help to break in her pony 
to the saddle.” 


22 


^taAIje: and fame. 


^‘You mustn’t be dull after a week’s absence. What 
would you do if I had to be more than half the year at 
Cambridge ? ” 

Ah, that would be a different thing. Have they given 
you an exhibition then ? ” 

Well, not exactly that.” The rector’s face fell, but it 
brightened as Sydney proceeded with a touch of youthful 
pomposity. “ Your old pupil is a Scholar of Trinity.'’ 

The rector was carrying his cane as he walked along, 
and when Sydney had told his good news he stopped short, 
his face aglow, and for lack of any more eloquent mode of 
expressing his satisfaction, raised it in the air and brought 
it down with sounding emphasis on his companion’s 
back. 

Sydney laughed. 

“ Laudatur et alget,” he said. “ How many stripes 
would it have been if I had come home disgraced ? ” 

“ The stripes would have been my portion in that case,” 
the rector answered, with a hearty laugh. He had not 
been so jovial for many months. 

Then Lettice came running up, and had to be told the 
news, and clung to Sydney’s neck with kisses, which he 
graciously permitted rather than returned. But he was 
gratified by her affection, as well as by the pride and 
pleasure which his father took in his success, and the less 
discriminating, but equally warm congratulations and 
caresses showered upon him by his mother. 

Indeed for the rest of the day, Sydney was caressed and 
complimented to his heart’s content. He preferred the 
compliments to the caresses, and he was not unloving to 
his parents, although he repulsed Lettice when she at- 
tempted to kiss him more than once. He had come back 
from Cambridge with an added sense of manliness and im- 
portance, which did not sit ill upon his handsome face and 
the frank confidence of his manner. It was Sydney who 
had inherited the golden hair and regular features which, 
as his mother said, ought to have belonged to I.ettice and 
not to him ; but she loved him all the more dearly for his 
resemblance to her family and to herself. It escaped her 
observation that Sydney’s blue-grey eyes were keener, his 
mouth more firmly closed and his jaw squarer than those 
of most boys or men, and betokened, if physiognomy goes 
for anything, a new departure in character and intellect 


J\rAM£ AND FAME, 


23 


from the ways in which Mrs. Campion and her family had 
always walked. A fair, roseate complexion, and a winning 
manner, served to disguise these points of difference ; and 
Mrs. Campion had not quick sight for anything which did 
not lie upon the surface, in the character of those with 
whom she had to do. 

She was usually to be found in the drawing-room — a 
faded, pretty woman, little over fifty years of age, but with 
the delicate and enfeebled air of the semi-invalid — a white 
shawl round her shoulders, a bit of knitting or embroidery 
between her incapable, uncertain fingers. Her hair was 
very grey, but the curliness had never gone out of it, and 
it sj)rang so crisply and picturesquely from her white, un- 
wrinkled forehead that it seemed a pity to hide any of the 
pretty waves even by the crown of fine old lace which 
Mrs. Campion loved. She was a woman at whom no one 
could look without a sense of artistic satisfaction, for her 
face was still charming, and her dress delicately neat and 
becoming. As for her mental and moral qualities, she 
was perfectly well satisfied with them, and her husband 
was as satisfied as she — although from a somewhat differ- 
ent point of view. And as she very properly remarked, if 
her husband were satisfied with her, she did not know why 
she should be called upon to regard any adverse opinion 
of the outer world. At the same time she was an ardent 
disciple of Mrs. Grundy. 

How this woman came to be the mother of a child like 
Lettice, it were, indeed, hard to say. Sydney was fash- 
ioned more or less after Mrs. Campion’s own heart : he 
was brisk, practical, unimaginative — of a type that she to 
some extent understood ; but Lettice with her large heart, 
her warm and passionate nature, her keen sensibilities 
and tender conscience, was a continual puzzle to her 
mother. Especially at this period of the girl’s life, when 
new powers were developing and new instincts coming 
into existence — the very time when a girl most needs the 
help and comfort of a mother’s tender comprehension — 
Mrs. Campion and Lettice fell hopelessly apart. Lettice’s 
absorption in her studies did not seem right in Mrs. Cam- 
pion’s eyes : she longed with all her soul to set her daugh- 
ter down to crewel-work and fancy knitting, and her one 
comfort in view of Sydney’s approaching separation from 
his home was her hope that; when he was gone, Lettice 


24 


J\/AME AND FAME. 


would give up Latin and Greek and become like other 
girls. She was ignorantly proud of Sydney’s successes : 
she was quite as ignorantly ashamed of Lettice’s achieve- 
ments in the same lines of study. 

“ I can never forget,” she said to Lettice that evening, 
when the rector and his son were discussing Cambridge 
and examination papers in the study, while the mother 
and her daughter occupied the drawing-room — Lettice,* 
indeed, wild to join her father and brother in the study 
and glean every possible fragment of information concerning 
the place which she had been taught to reverence, but far 
too dutiful to her mother to leave her alone when Mrs. 
Campion seemed inclined to talk — “ I can never forget 
that Sydney learned his alphabet at my knee. I taught 
him to spell, at any rate ; and if your father had not in- 
sisted on taking the teaching out of my hands when he was 
seven years old, I am convinced that I should have done 
great things with him.” 

“ Surely he has done great things already, mamma ! ” 
Lettice said with enthusiasm. 

“ Oh, yes ! ” said Mrs. Campion with a sigh. “ But I 
dan’t think your father has given quite the bias to his 
mind that I should have liked best. I have always hoped 
that he would spend his strength in the service of the 

Church ; but You have not heard him say much 

about his future career, have you, Lettice ? ” 

“ I don’t think he has considered it particularly,” Let- 
tice answered. “ But he never speaks of taking Orders ; 
he talked of the Bar the other day. There’s no reason 
why he should make up his mind so soon, is there, 
mamma ? ” 

“ No, dear, no. But I am quite sure that if he went into 
the Cluirch he would be a Bishop,” said Mrs. Campion, 
with conviction. “ And I should like him to be a Bishop.” 

“Well, perhaps he will be Lord Chancellor instead,” 
said Lettice, merrily. 

“ There can be no doubt, my dear,” said her mother, 

“ that a Bishop of the Anglican Church is able to carry 
himself with more dignity and distinction in everyday life 
than a Lord Chancellor, who is only dignified when he is 
on the Bench. I think that Sydney would make an ex- 
cellent Bishop — quite the most distinguished Bishop of 
the day.” 


JVAM£ AND FAME. 


25 


It was not until next morning that Lettice had time to 
ply her brother with questions as to his examination and 
his Cambridge experiences generally. She did not ask 
about the visit to London which he had also paid. She 
had been to London herself, and could go there any day. 
But Cambridge ! — the goal of Sydney’s aspirations — the 
place where (the girl believed) intellectual success or 
•failure was of such paramountj importance — what was that 
like? 

Sydney was ready to hold forth. He liked the position 
of instructor, and was not insensible to the flattery of Let- 
tice’s intentness on his answers. But he was a little dis- 
mayed by one of her questions, which showed the direction 
of her thoughts. 

“ Did you hear anything about the women’s college, 
Sydney ? ” For Girton and Newnham were less well 
known then than they are now. 

“ Women’s colleges ! No, indeed. At least, I heard 
them laughed at several times. They’re no good.’* 

“ Why not ? ” said Lettice, wisifully. 

“ Now, Lettice,” said the youthful mentor, severe in 
boyish wisdom, “ I hope you are not going to take fancies 
into your head about going to Cambridge yourself. I 
should not like it at all. I’m not going to have my sister 
laughed at and sneered at every time she walks out. I 
don’t want to be made a laughing-stock. Nice girls stay 
at home with their mothers ; they don’t go to colleges and 
make themselves peculiar.” 

“ I am not going to be peculiar ; but I don’t want to 
forget all I have learned with you,” said Lettice, quickly. 

“ You have learned too much already,” said the auto- 
crat, whose views concerning women’s education had de- 
veloped since his short stay in Cambridge. “ Girls don’t 
want Latin and Greek ; they want music and needlework, 
and all that sort of thing. I don’t want my sister to be a 
blue-stocking.” 

Lettice felt that her lot in life ought not to be settled 
for her simply as Sydney’s sister — that she had an indi- 
viduality of her own. But the feeling was too vague to 
put into words ; and after Syndey had left her, in obe- 
dience to a call from his father, she sat on in the long, low 
room with its cushioned window-seats and book-covered 
walls — the dear old room in which she had spent so many 


25 


AJVD FAME, 


happy hours witli her teacher and her fellow-pupil — and 
wondered what would become of her when Sydney was 
really gone; whether all those happy days were over, and 
she must henceforth content herself with a life at Mrs. 
Campion's side, where it was high treason to glance at any 
book that was neither a devotional work nor a novel. 
Lettice loved her mother, but the prospect did not strike 
her as either brilliant or cheering. 

It was the beginning, although at first she knew it not, 
of a new era in her life. Her happy childhood was over ; 
she was bound henceforth to take up the heavy burden 
which custom lays on the shoulders of so many women : 
the burden of trivial care, unchanging routine, petty con- 
ventionalities — 

“ Heavy as frost and deep almost as life.” 

Sydney went out into the world to fight ; Lettice sat in 
idleness at home ; and society, as well as the rector and 
his wife, judged this division of labor to be fair and right. 
But to Lettice, whose courage was high and whose will 
and intellect were strong, it seemed a terrible injustice 
that she might not fight and labor too. She longed for 
expansion : for a wider field and sharper weapons where- 
with to contest the battle ; and she longed in vain. Dur- 
ing her father’s lifetime it became more and more impos- 
sible for her to leave home. She was five-and- twenty 
before she breathed a larger air than that of Angleford. 


CHAPTER III. 

PROGRESS. 

In due time, Sydney proceeded to Cambridge, and Lettice 
vvas left alone. The further development of brother and 
sister can scarcely be understood without a retrospective 
glance at their own and their parents’ history. 

The Reverend Lawrence Campion, Rector of Angle- 
ford, was at this tirne a prosperous and contented man. 
Before he reached his fortieth year, he had been presented 
by an old college friend to a comfortable living. Married 
to the woman of his early choice, he had become the father 


ATAM^: AND FAME. 


27 


of two straight-limbed, healthy, and intelligent children ; 
and then, for another twenty years, he felt that he would 
not care to change his lot with that of the most enviable 
of his fellow-creatures. 

Being himself a scholar and a student, he determined 
that his boy and girl, so far as he could shape their lives, 
should be scholars also. To teach them all he knew was 
henceforth his chief occupation ; for he would not hand 
IjjVer to another a task which for him was a simple labor 
of love. Day by day he sat between them in his comfortable 
study, where roses tapped at the lozenge-shaped window 
panes all through the summer, and in winter the glow 
of the great logs upon the hearth was reflected from the 
polished binding and gilt lettering of his books in a thou- 
sand autumnal hues, as pleasing to his eyes as the tints of 
the summer flowers. Day by day he sat between his 
children, patiently laying the foundation of all they could 
thereafter learn or know. He made no distinction for age 
or sex; and in their case, at any rate, nature had set no 
stigma of inferiority on the intelligence of the girl. Sydney 
was the older of the two by eighteen months, and at first 
it seemed as though his mind was readier to grasp a new 
idea ; but there awoke in Lettice a spirit of generous 
rivalry and resolution, which saved her from being far out- 
stripped by her brother. Together they studied Greek and 
Latin ; they talked French and read German ; they picked 
up as much of mathematics as their father could explain 
to them — which was little enough; and, best of all, they 
developed a literary faculty such as does not always accom- 
pany a knowledge of half-a-dozen dead and living lan- 
guages. 

The day came when Mr. Campion, not without misgiving, 
resolved to test the value of the education which he 
had given to his children. He had held a fellowship at 
Peterhouse up to the time of his marriage, and had intend- 
ed that Sydney should try for a scholarship at the same 
college. But the boy aimed at a higher mark ; he was bent 
on being a Scholar of Trinity. Perhaps it might have done 
him good to fail once or twice on the threshold of his life, 
and his father assured himself beforehand that he would 
not be disappointed if his pupil was sent back to him for 
another year of preparation. But, as we have already seen, 
Sydney succeeded, and, if the truth must be told, Mr. 
Campion was in'no way surprised at his success. 


28 


JVAME AND FAME, 


From that time forward none of the Campions ever 
dreamed of failure in connection with Sydney’s efforts. 
He certainly did not dream of failure for himself. He had 
that sublime confidence which swells the heart of every 
young man in the flush of his first victory. We laugh in the 
middle age at the ambitions which we nursed at twenty ; 
but we did not laugh when the divine breath was in us, 
and when our faith removed mountains of difficulty from 
our path. 

Sydney’s career at Cambridge was one long triumph. 
He gained the Craven and Porson scholarships ; his epi- 
grams were quoted by college tutors as models of vigor 
and elegance ; he was President of the Union ; he took an 
excellent degree, and was elected to a fellowship in due 
course. He had, in fact, done brilliant things ; and at 
the age of twenty-four he was — to those who knew him 
best, and especially to those who liked him least — that 
shining, glorified, inspired, and yet sophisticated product 
of modern university culture, an academic prig. The word 
is not of necessity a term of reproach. Perhaps we are 
all prigs at some season in our lives, if we happen to have 
any inherent power of doing great things. There are lovable 
prigs, who grow into admirable men and women ; but, 
alas ! for the prig whose self-love coils round him like a 
snake, until it crushes out the ingenuous fervor of youth, 
and perverts the noblest aspirations of manhood ! 

From Cambridge Sydney went to London, and was 
called to the bar. Here, of course, his progress was not 
so rapid. Briefs do not come for wishing, nor even for 
merit alone. Nevertheless he was advancing year by year 
in the estimation of good judges ; and it was known to his 
father, and to his intimate friends, that he only waited a 
favorable opportunity to stand for a seat in parliament. 

At Angleford, in the meantime, they watched his career 
with proud hearts and loving sympathy. Mrs. Campion, 
in particular, doted on her son. She even scanned the 
paper every morning, never by any chance missing an 
item of law intelligence, where occasionally she would be 
rewarded by coming across Sydney’s name. She would 
not have considered any distinction, however great, to be 
more than his due. 

Lettice never thought of disagreeing with her mother 
when she sang the praises of Sydney j but it must be con- 


NAME AND FAME. 


29 


fessed that both the rector and his wife displayed less 
than their ordinary balance of judgment in discussing the 
merits of their son. They unconsciously did much in- 
justice to the girl, by their excessive adulation of her 
brother, and her interests were constantly sacrificed to his. 
She would have been the last to admit that it was so; but 
the fact was clear enough to the few persons who used to 
visit them at Angleford. Her friend, Clara Graham, for 
instance, the wife of a London journalist, who came down 
now and then to spend a holiday in her native village, 
would attempt to commiserate Lettice on the hardness of 
her lot ; but Lettice would not listen to anything of the 
kind. She was too loyal to permit a word to be spoken 
in her presence which might seem to reflect upon her 
parents or her brother. 

Yet it would have been impossible that she should not 
be in some way affected by the change which had come 
over her life since Sydney went to Cambridge. From that 
day her regular reading with her father had ceased, and 
she was left to direct her studies as she thought best. Mr. 
Campion was almost entirely absorbed in the prospects of 
his son, and if Lettice needed his assistance she had to ask 
for it, often more than once. The consequence was that she 
soon gave up asking, and her mind, left to its own devices, 
gradually found its true bent. She did not read much 
more Latin or Greek, but devoured all the Modern litera- 
ture that came in her way. After that she began to write — 
not fiction in the first instance, but more or less solid essays 
in criticism and social philosophy, following the pattern of 
certain writers in the half-crown monthly magazines, which 
her father was wont to take in. If she had known that the 
time would come when she would have to earn her living 
by her pen, she could scarcely have adopted a better plan 
to prepare herself for the task. * 

In the first instance, whatever she did in this way had 
been for her own pleasure and distraction, without any 
clear idea of turning her abilities to practical account. 
She had no inclination for an idle life, but there was a 
limited period during which it rested with her father to say 
what her occupation as a woman should be. When Sidney 
went to Cambridge, Lettice had entreated that she might 
be sent to Girton or Newnham ; but the young Scholar of 
Trinity had fought shy of the notion, and it was dropped at 


30 


J\rAM£ AND FAME, 


once. That, indeed, was the beginning of Lettice’s isola- 
tion — the beginning of a kind of mental estrangement 
from her brother, which the lapse of time was to widen 
and perpetuate. 

^ Mr. Campion and his wife were by no means unkind to 
their daughter ; they simply put Sydney first in all their 
plans and anticipations of the future. Her education was 
supposed to be complete ; her lot was to be cast at home, 
and not in the rough outer world, where men compete and 
struggle for the mastery. If she had complained, they might 
not have been shocked, but they would have been im- 
measurably astonished. The rector had given her an 
excellent training, and though his strongest motive was the 
desire to stimulate and encourage his son, no doubt he had 
her interests in view at the same time. But when he finished 
with Sydney he finished with Lettice, and it never occurred 
to him that there was any injustice in suddenly withdrawing 
from her the arm on which he had taught her to lean. 

She did not complain. Yet as time went on she could 
not shut her eyes to Sydney’s habit of referring every 
question to the test of personal expediency. It was her 
first great disillusion, but the pain which it caused her was 
on her parents’ behalf rather than on her own. They were 
the chief sufferers ; they gave him so much and received so 
little in return. To be sure, Sydney was only what they 
had made him. They bade him “ take,” in language which 
he could easily understand, but their craving for love, for 
tenderness, for a share in his hopes, ambitions, resolutions, 
and triumphs, found no entrance to his understanding. 

Sydney had spent a large sum of money at Cambridge, 
and had left heavy debts behind him, although his father 
had paid without remonstrance all the accounts which he 
suffered to reach the old man’s hands. He had what are 
called expensfve tastes ; in other words, he bought what 
he coveted, and did not count the cost. The same thing 
went on in London, and Mr. Campion soon found that 
his income, good as it was, fell short of the demands 
which were made upon it. 

The rector himself had always been a free spender. 
His books, his pictures, his garden, his mania for curiosities, 
had run away with thousands of pounds, and now, when 
he surreptitiously tried to convert these things into cash 
again there was a woeful falling off in their value. He 


ATAME AND FAME, 


31 


knew nothing of the art of driving a bargain ; and, where 
others would have made a profit with the same opportuni- 
ties, he invariably lost money. He had bought badly to 
begin with, and he sold disastrously. Being hard pressed 
on one occasion for a hundred pounds to send to Sydney, 
he borrowed it of a perfect stranger, who took for his 
security what would have sufficed to cover ten times the 
amount. 

This was in the third year after Sydney was called to the 
bar. Lettice was in London that autumn, on a visit to the 
Grahams ; and perhaps something which she contrived to 
say to her brother induced him to write and tell his father 
that briefs were coming in at last, and that he hoped to be 
able to dispense with further remittances from home. Mr. 
Campion rejoiced in this assurance as though it implied 
that Sydney had made his fortune. But things had gone 
too far with him to admit of recovery, even if the young 
man had kept to his good resolutions — which he did not. 

The fact is that Sydney’s college debts hung like a weight 
round his neck, and he had made no effort to be rid of 
them. The income of his fellowship and his professional 
earnings ought to have been ample for all his needs, and 
no excuse can be urged for the selfishness which made him 
a burden to his father after he had left Cambridge. But 
chambers in Piccadilly, as well as at the Inner Temple, a 
couple of West End clubs, a nightly rubber at whist, and 
certain regular drains upon his pocket which never found 
their way into any book of accounts, made up a formidable 
total of expenditure by the year’s end. He was too clever 
a man of the world to let his reputation — or even his con- 
science — suffer by his self-indulgence, and, if he lived hard 
in the pursuit of pleasure, he also worked hard in his pro- 
fession. In short, he was a well-reputed lawyer, against 
whom no one had a word to say ; and he was supposed to 
have a very good chance of the prizes which are wont to 
fall to the lot of successful lawyers. 

At the beginning of 1880, when Sydney Campion was in 
his twenty-seventh year, there came to him the opportunity 
for which he had waited. Mr. Disraeli had dissolved 
Parliament somewhat suddenly, and appealed to the couiv- 
try for a renewal of the support accorded to him six years 
before. He had carried out in Eastern Europe a policy 
worthy of an Imperial race. He had brought peace with 


32 


NAME AND FAME. 


honor from Berlin, filled the bazaars of three continents 
with rumors of his fame, and annexed the Suez Canal. He 
had made his Queen an Empress, and had lavished garters 
and dukedoms on the greatest of Her Majesty’s subjects. 
But the integrity of the empire, safe from foes without, was 
threatened on either shore of St. George’s Channel — by 
malignant treason on one side, and on the other by exu- 
berant verbosity. It was a moment big with the fate of 
humanity — and he strongly advised the constituencies to 
make him Prime Minister again. 

Then the country was plunged into the turmoil of a 
General Election. Every borough and shire which had 
not already secured candidates hastened to do so. Zealous 
Liberals and enthusiastic Tories ran up to town from the 
places where local spirit fiiiled, or local funds were not 
forthcoming, convinced that they would find no lack of 
either in the clubs and associations of the metropolis. 
Young and ambitious politicians had their chance at last, 
and amongst others the chance came for Sydney Campion. 

There is no difficulty about getting into Parliament for 
a young man who has friends. He can borrow the money, 
the spirit, the eloquence, the political knowledge, and he 
will never be asked to repay any of them out of his own 
resources. Now Sydney had a friend who would have seen 
him through the whole business on these terms, who would 
at any rate have found him money, the only qualification 
in which he was deficient. But he fell into a trap prepared 
for him by his own vanity, and, as it happened, the mistake 
cost him very dear. 

“You see. Campion,” his friend had said to him, after 
suggesting that he should go down as Conservative candi- 
date for Dormer, “ our people know very well what they 
would get for their money if you were elected. You would 
make your mark in the first session, and be immensely 
useful to us in ever so many ways.” 

“ Would it cost much ? ” asked Sydney, rather nettled 
by the mention of money. He had known Sir John Pyn- 
sent at Cambridge, and had never allowed himself to be 
outdressed or outshone by him in any way. But Pynsent 
had beaten him in the race for political honors ; and Syd- 
ney, like a showy player at billiards who prefers to put 
side on when he might make a straightforward stroke, 
resolved to take a high tone with his would-be patronizing 
friend. 


NAME AND FAME. 


33 


Much ? ” said Sir John. Well, no, not much, as things 
go. But these worthies at Dormer have their own tradi- 
tional ways of working the oracle. The Rads have got 
hold of a stockjobber who is good for a thousand, and 
Maltman says they cannot fight him with less than that. 
The long and short of it is that they want a strong candi- 
date with five hundred pounds, and we are prepared to 
send you down, my boy, and to be good for that amount.” 

Sydney took out his cigar case, and offered the beaming 
baronet a choice Villar. 

“It’s uncommonly good of you, Pynsent, to give me a 
look in at Dormer, and to suggest the other thing in such 
a friendly way. Now, look here — can you let me have two 
days to say yes or no to Maltman ? ” 

“ I am afraid I can’t. He must have his answer in 
twenty-four hours.” 

“ Well, say twenty-four hours. He shall have it by this 
time to-morrow. And as for the five hundred, you may be 
wanting that by and by. Keep it for some fellow who is 
not in a position to fight for his own hand.” 

Sir John Pynsent left his friend with a greatly increased 
opinion of his spirit and professional standing — a result of 
the interview with which Sydney was perfectly satisfied. 

Then came the serious question, how he was to deal with 
the emergency which had arisen — perhaps the most critical 
emergency of his life. Within twenty-four hours he must 
know when and how he could put his hand upon five 
hundred pounds. 

He might easily have saved twice the sum before now ; 
but he had never learned the art of saving. He thought 
of his father, whom he had not seen or written to for more 
than a month, and determined that he would at all events 
go down and consult the rector. He had not realized the 
fact that his father’s resources were already exhausted, 
and that mere humanity, to say nothing of filial duty, 
req ired him to come to the old man’s assistance, instead 
of asking him for fresh sacrifices. 

“ If he has not the money,” Sydney said, “ no doubt he 
can help me to raise it. It will be an excellent investment 
of our joint credit, and a very good thing for us both.” 

So he telegraphed to Angleford — 

“ I am going to contest a borough. Must make Drovision. 
Shall be with you by next train.” 

3 


34 


NAME AND FAME, 


CHAPTER IT. 

FATHER AND SON. 

Sydney’s telegram reached Angleford at an awkward time. 
Things had been going from bad to worse with Mr. Cam- 
pion, who had never had as much money as he needed 
since he paid the last accounts of the Cambridge tradesmen. 
In the vain hope that matters would mend by and by — 
though he did not form any precise idea as to how the 
improvement would take place — he had been meeting each 
engagement as it came to maturity by entering on another 
still more onerous. After stripping himself of all his house- 
hold treasures that could be converted into money, he had 
pledged his insurance policy, his professional and private 
income, and at last even his furniture ; and he was now in 
very deep waters. 

A great change had come over him. At sixty, when 
Sydney took his degree, he was still handsome and upright, 
buoyant with hope and energy. At sixty-six he was broken, 
weak, and disheartened. To his wife and daughter, 
indeed, he was always the same cheerful, gentle, sanguine 
man, full of courtesy and consideration. In the village he 
was more beloved than ever, because there was scarcely a 
man ok woman who was not familiar with the nature and 
extent of Ijis troubles. In a country parish the affairs of 
the parson, especially when they do not prosper, are apt to 
become the affairs of the congregation as well Who should 
know better than a man’s butcher and baker when the 
supply of ready money runs short, when one month would 
be more convenient than another for the settlement of a 
bill, or when the half-year’s stipend has been forestalled 
and appropriated long before it fell due ? 

However great his trouble, the rector had generally' 
contrived to put a good face on things. He considered his 
difficulties as entirely the result of his own improvidence, 
and rejoiced to think that Sydney’s position was assured. 


AND FAME, 


35 


no matter what miglit happen to himself. Yet often in 
tlie silence of the night he would toss upon his restless 
bed, or vex his soul with complicated accounts in the 
privacy of his study, and none but the two faithful women 
who lived with him suspected what he suffered in his 
weakest moments. 

He had come to lean more and more constantly on the 
companionship of Lettice. Mrs. Cami)ion had never been 
the kind of woman to whom a man looks for strength or 
consolation, and when she condoled with her husband he 
usually felt himself twice as miserable as before. Some 
wives have a way of making their condolences sound like 
reproaches ; and they may be none the less loving wives 
for that. Mrs. Campion sincerely loved her husband, but 
she never thoroughly understood him. 

When the boy arrived with Sydney’s telegram, Lettice 
intercepted him at the door. She was accustomed to keep 
watch over everything that entered the house, and saved 
her father a great deal of trouble by reading his letters, 
and, if need be, by answering them. What he would have 
done without her, he was wont to aver, nobody could tell. 

Time had dealt gently with Lettice, in spite of her 
anx.eties, in spite of that passionate revolt against fate 
which from time to time had shaken her very soul. She 
was nearly five-and-twenty, and she certainly looked no 
moie then twenty-one. The sweet country air had pre- 
served the delicate freshness of her complexion : herdjgirk 
gre> eyes were clear, her white brow unlined by troume, 
her ’•ippling brown hair shining and abundant. Her 
slender hands were a little tanned — the only sign that 
country life had laid upon her — because she was never 
very careful about wearing gloves when she worked in the 
garden ; but neither tan nor freckle ever appeared upon 
her fate, the bloom of which was tender and refined as 
that of a briar-rose. The old wistful look of her sweet 
eyes lemained unchanged, but the mouth was sadder in 
repose than it had been when she was a child. When she 
smiled however, there could not have been a brighter 
face. 

Notvithstanding this touch of sadness on her lips, and a 
faint sladow of thought on the clear fine brows, the face of 
Lettice was noticeable for its tranquillity. No storm of 
passioi had ever troubled those translucent eyes : patience 


36 


NAME AND FAME, 


sat there, patience and reflection ; emotion waited its turn. 
One could not doubt her capabilities of feeling ; but, in 
spite of her four-and-twenty years, the depths of her heart 
had never yet been stirred. She had lived a somewhat 
restricted life, and there was yet very much for her to ex- 
perience and to learn. Who would be her teacher ? For 
Lettice was not the woman to go ignorant of life’s fullest 
bliss and deepest sorrow to the grave. 

She looked particularly slender and youthful as she stood 
that day at the hall window when Sydney’s telegram 
arrived. She had a double reason for keeping guard in the 
hall and glancing nervously down the carriage-drive that 
led from the main road to the rectory front. Half-an-hour 
before, a hard-featured man had swaggered up the avenue, 
fired off a volley of defiance on the knocker, and demanded 
to see Mr. Campion. 

“ What do you want ? ” said Lettice, who had opened 
the door and stood boldly facing him. 

“ I want to see the parson. At once, miss, if you please.” 
“ Perhaps I can do what is necessary, if you will tellme 
what your business is. You cannot see my father.” 

“ Oh,” said the man, with a little more respect. “ You 
are his daughter, are you ? Well, if you can do the needful 
I am sure I have no objection. Three hundred and twenty 
pound seventeen-and-six ” — here he took out a stamped 
paper and showed it to Lettice. That’s the figure, miss, 
and if you’ll oblige with coin — cheques and promises being 
equally inconvenient — I don’t mind waiting five minates 
to accommodate a lady.” 

“ We have not the money in the house,” answered 
Lettice, who had been reading the formidable docuiaent, 
without quite understanding what it meant. i 

“ Ah, that’s a pity,” said the man. “ But I didn’t ^pect 
it, so I ain’t disappointed.” ' 

‘‘ It shall be sent to you. I will see that you ha\e it — 
within a week from this date — only go away now, for my 
father is unwell.” j 

“ Very sorry, miss, but I can’t go without the lioney. 
This business won’t wait any longer. The coin pr the 
slicks — those are my orders, and that’s my notion f what 
is fair and right.” | 

“ The sticks ? ” said Lettice faintly. , 

“The goods— the furniture. This paper is a bill [f sale, 
and as the reverend gentleman doesn’t find it conveiient to 


J\rAME AND FAME, 


37 


pay, why, of course, my principal is bound to realize the 
security. Now, miss, am I to see the gentleman, or am I 
not ? ” 

“ Oh no,” said Lettice, “ it is useless.” 

Then what I am going to do,” said the man, “ is this. 
I am going to get the vans, and fetch the goods right away. 
I may be back this afternoon, or I may be back to-morrow 
morning; but you take my advice, miss. Talk it over with 
the old gentleman, and raise the money somehow, for it 
really would go against me to have to sell you up. Tm to 
be heard of at the ‘ Chequers,’ miss — William Joskins, at 
your service.” 

Then he had gone away, and left her alone, and she 
stood looking through the window at the dreary prospect 
— thinking, and thinking, and unable to see any light in 
the darkness. 

One thing, at all events, she must do ; a message must 
be sent to Sydney. It would not be just, either to him or 
to his father, that the extent of the disaster should be any 
longer concealed. She had just arrived at this determina- 
tion, and was turning away to write the telegram, when 
the messenger from the post-office made his appearance. 

In five minutes all the house was astir. A visit from 
Sydney was a rare occurrence, and he must be treated 
royally, as though he were a king condescending to quarter 
himself on his loyal subjects — which, indeed, he was. 
When Lettice went to tell her father the news she found 
him seated by the fire, pondering gloomily on what the 
immediate future might have in store for him ; but as soon 
as she showed him Sydney’s telegram he sprang to his feet, 
with straightened body and brightly shining eyes. In one 
moment he had passed from despondency to the height of 
exultation. 

“Two o’clock,” he said, looking at his watch, “and he 
will be here at five ! Dinner must be ready for him by 
six ; and you will take care, Lettice, that everything is pre- 
pared as you know he would like to have it. Going into 
Parliament, is he ? Yes, I have always told you that he 
would. He is a born orator, child ; he will serve his coun- 
try brilliantly — not for place, nor for corrupt motives of 
any kind, but as a patriot and a Christian, to whom duty is 
the law of his nature.” 

“Yes, papa. And you will be satisfied when he is a 
member of Parliament ? ” 


38 


J\rAM£ AND FAME. 


“ So long as Sydney lives, my dear, I know that he will 
grow in favor with God and man ; and so long as I live, I 
shall watch his course with undiminished joy and satisfac- 
tion. What else have we left to live for? Wife ! ” said 
the rector, as Mrs. Campion entered the room, “ do you 
know that our boy is to dine with us to-night ? ” 

“ Yes, Lawrence, I have seen his telegram ; and Mollie 
is doing all she can at short notice. It will not be the 
kind of dinner I should like to put before him ; but times 
are changed with us — sadly changed ! I hope he will not 
miss the plate, Lawrence ; and as for wine and dessert 


“ Oh, mother dear,” said Lettice, interrupting, “ I quite 
forgot to tell you about my letter this morning. Look 
here ! It contained a cheque for ten pounds, for that ar- 
ticle of mine in the Decade. I mean to go into Dorminster, 
and get one or two things we shall be wanting, and I shall 
probably drive back in Sydney’s cab. So you can leave 
the wine and dessert to me. And, mother dear, be sure 
you put on your silver-grey poplin, with the Mechlin cap. 
Nothing suits you half as well ! ” 

Lettice’s earnings had sufficed for some years past for 
her dress and personal expenses ; but latterly she had 
contrived to have a fair margin left for such emergencies 
as that which had now arisen. She was more than thanked 
by the gleam of love which lightened the eyes of her 
parents as she spoke. Even though Sydney was coming, 
she thought, that smile at any rate was all for her. 

So she went into the town and made her purchases, and 
waited at the station, shivering in the cold March wind, 
for Sydney’s train. 

How much should she tell him to begin with ? Or should 
she say nothing till after dinner ? How would he take it? 
How would it affect him ? And suppose for a moment 
that he had to choose between getting into Parliament and 
rescuing his father from ruin? 

Clearly as she saw the worst sides of Sydney’s character, 
yet she loved him well, and was proud of him. How often 
she had yearned for tenderness in the days gone by ! 
What excuses she had framed for him in her own heart, 
when he seemed to forget their existence at Angleford for 
months together ! And now, when she had this terrible 


NAME A ATE FAME. 


39 


news to tell him, was it not possible that his heart would 
be softened by the blow, and that good would come for all 
of them out of this menaced evil ? What a happy place 
the old Rectory might be if her father’s mind were set at 
rest again, and Sydney would come down and stay with 
them from time to time ! ” 

The train was at the platform before Lettice had decided 
what to do. Sydney looked rather surprised to see her, 
but gave her his cheek to kiss, and hurried her off to the 
cab stand. 

“ What brought you here? ” he said. “ How cold you 
are ! All well at home ? ” 

“Yes, they are well. But, oh, Sydney, they are growing 
old ? ’’ 

“ Growing old, child ? Why, of course diey are. We 
must expect it. Do you mean they look older than they 
are ? ” 

“Yes — older, and — and more ” 

“Well?” 

He looked at her sharply, for she could not quite com- 
mand her voice, and left the sentence unfinished. Then 
Sydney had an uncomfortable feeling. He saw that there 
was something amiss, but did not care at the moment to 
insist on further comfidences. No doubt he would hear 
all that there was to be said by and by. Meanwhile he 
turned the conversation, and soon contrived to interest 
her, so that they reached the Rectory in excellent spirits. 
All that day poor Lettice alternated between despair and 
giddy lightness of heart. 

So the hero came home and was feasted, and his father 
and mother did obeisance to him, and ev2n he for an hour 
or two thought it good that he should now and then re- 
new his contract with the earth from which he sprang, and 
remember the chains of duty and affection which bound 
him to the past, instead of dwelling constantly in the 
present and the future. 

Throughout dinner, and at dessert, and as they drank 
the wine which Lettice had provided, Sydney spoke of his 
position and prospects, dazzling those who listened to him 
with his pictures of victory at Dormer, of Conservative 
triumphs all along the line, of Ministerial favor for himself, 
of “ Office — why not ? — within a twelvemonth.” It would 


40 


J\rAME AND FAME. 


have been treason for any of his audience to doubt that all 
these good things would come to pass. If Lettice felt that 
there was a skeleton at the feast, her father at any rate 
had forgotten its existence. Or, rather, he saw deliverance 
at hand. The crisis of his boy’s fortune had arrived ; 
and, if Sydney triumphed, nothing that could happen to 
Sydney’s father could rob Mr. Campion of his joy. 

At last the women left the room, and Sydney proceeded 
to tell his father what he wanted. He must return to town 
by the first train in the morning, having made an appoint- 
ment with Mr. Maltman for two o’clock. Of course he 
meant to contest Dormer ; but it was desirable that he 
should know for certain that he could raise five hundred 
pounds within a week, to supplement his own narrow 
means. 

His face fell a little when his father confessed — as though 
it were clearly a matter for shame and remorse — that he 
could not so much as draw a cheque for twenty pounds. 
Blit, in fact, he was not surprised. Recklessly as he had 
abstained from inquiring into the old man’s affairs since 
Lettice spoke to him in London two years ago, he had 
taken it for granted that there were difficulties of some 
kind ; and men in difficulties do not keep large balances 
at their bankers’. 

“ Well, father,” he said, “ I am sorry for that. Yes — it 
certainly makes the thing rather hard for me. I hoped 
you might have seen me fairly launched on my career ; 
and then, you know, if the worst came to the worst, I could 
soon have repaid you what you advanced. Well, what I 
suggest is this. I can probably borrow the money with 
your assistance, and I want to know what security we 
could offer between us for the loan.” 

Mr. Campion looked mournfully at his son, but he was 
not ready with a reply. 

“ You see,” said Sydney, “ it would never do for me to 
miss this chance. Everything depends upon it, and I was 
bound to refuse Pynsent’s offer of the money. But if you 
have something that we can lodge as security ” 

Mr. Campion shook his head. The look of distress that 
came upon his face might have softened Sydney’s heart, if 
he had been less intent on his object. 

“ There will be an insurance policy I suppose ? ” 


JSTAME AND FAME. 


4 « 

‘‘ No, my boy ! The fact is, 1 was obliged to assign it 
a few years ago, to cover a former engagement.” 

“ Dear me ! ” said Sydney, in a tone of vexation, “ what 
a nuisance ! I am afraid our signatures alone would hardly 
suffice. A bill of sale is out of the question, for that 
would have to be registered.’’ 

Something in the old man’s appearance, as he sank back 
in his chair and wrung his hands, struck Sydney with a 
sudden conviction. He sprang to his feet, and came close 
to his father’s side, standing over him in what looked almost 
like an attitude of menace. 

“ Good heaven ! ” he cried. “ Don’t tell me that it has 
gone so far as that ! ” 

The door opened, and Lettice stood before them, with 
pale cheeks and glistening eyes. She had guessed what 
would come of their conversation, and had held herself in 
readiness to intervene. 

Sydney turned upon her at once. 

“ You,” he said, as deliberate now as he had been ex- 
cited a minute before, “you, with your fine head for busi- 
ness, will doubtless know as much about this as anybody. 
Has my father given a bill of sale on his furniture ? ” 

“ He has,” said Lettice. 

“ When ? ” 

“ Months ago. I must have known it, for I read all his 
correspondence ; but I hardly knew what a bill of sale 
meant. And Sydney,” she continued, laying her hand on 
his arm, and whispering so that her father should not hear, 
“ it may be only a threat, but a man was here this morning, 
who said he should come to-morrow and take the things 
away.” 

When he heard this, Sydney lost his self-command, and 
spoke certain words for which he never quite forgave 
himself. No doubt the blow was a heavy one, and he 
realized immediately all that it implied. But he did not 
foresee the effect of the harsh and bitter words which he 
flung at his father and sister, charging them with reckless 
extravagance, and declaring that their selfishness had 
ruined his whole career. 

Lettice was stung to the quick, not so much by her bro- 
ther’s unjust accusations as by the suffering which they in- 
flicted on her father. His childishness had increased upon 


42 


A^AAIE AhW FAME. 


him so much of late tliat he was in truth, at this moment, 
more like a boy under correction than a father in pre- 
sence of his children. He buried his face in his hands, and 
Lettice heard a piteous groan. 

Then she stood beside him, laid her arm upon his neck, 
and faced Sydney with indignant eyes. 

“ Look ! ” she said. “ This is your work. Can you not 
see and understand ? You accuse him of selfishness — him, 
whose life has been one long sacrifice for you ! I tell you, 
Sydney, that your cruel neglect, your ingrained love of 
self, have dragged our father down to this. He gave you 
all that you have, and made you all that you are, and when 
you should have come to his succor, and secured for him 
a happy old age, you have left him all these years to 
struggle with the poverty to which you reduced him. He 
never murmured — he will never blame you as long as he 
lives — he is as proud of you to-day as he was ten years 
ago — and you dare, you dare to reproach him ! ” 

Lettice ended in magnificent wrath ; and, then, being a 
woman after all, she knelt by her father’s side and burst 
into tears. 

If Sydney’s pride had not got the better of him he would 
have owned the justice of her words, and all might 
have been well. Instead of that, he went to his room, 
brooding upon his misfortune, and soothing his wounded 
feelings in an intense self-pity. 

And next morning, when he came remorsefully to his 
father’s bedside, intending to assure him that he would 
make it the first business of his life to rescue him from his 
difficulties, he found him rescued indeed, with placid face 
and silent heart, over which the cares of earth had no fur- 
ther dominion. 


NAM£ AND FAME. 


43 


CHAPTER V. 

SEVERANCE. 

The rector^s death was a terrible shock to Sydney. For 
a time his remorse for his own conduct was very great, 
and it bore good fruit in a perceptible softening of his over- 
confident manner and a more distinct show of consideration 
for his mother and sister. Little by little he drew from 
Lettice the story of her past anxieties, of his father’s efforts 
and privations, of his mother’s suffering at the loss of lux- 
uries to which she had always been accustomed — suffering 
silently borne because it was borne for Sydney. Lettice 
spared him as far as she could ; but there was much that 
she was obliged to tell, as she had been for so long the 
depositary of her father’s secrets and his cares. Man-like, 
Sydney showed his sorrow by exceeding sharpness of tone. 

“ Why did you not write to me ? Why was I never 
told?” 

“ I told you as much as I dared, when I was in London.” 

“ As much as you dared ? ” 

Dear father would not let me tell very much. He laid 
his commands on me to say nothing.” 

“You should have disobeyed him,” said Sydney march- 
ing up and down the darkened study, in which this con- 
ference took place. “ It was your duty to have disobeyed 
him, for his own good ” 

“ Oh, Sydney, how can you talk to me of duty ? ” said 
Lettice, with a sob. “ Why did you not come and see for 
yourself? Why did you stay away so long? ” 

The reproach cut deeper than she knew. “ I thought I 
was acting for the best,” said the young man, half defiantly, 
half apologetically. “ I did what it was the desire of his 
heart that I should do — But you, you were at home ; 
you saw it all, and you should have told me, Lettice.” 

“ I did try,” she answered meekly, “ but it was not very 
easy to make you listen.” 

In other circumstances he would, perhaps, have retorted 
angrily ; and Lettice felt that it said much for the depth 


44 


J\rAME AND FAME, 


of his sorrow for the past that he did not carry his self- 
defence any further. By and by he paused in his agitated 
walk up and down the room, with head bent and hands 
plunged deep into his pockets. After two or three mo- 
ments’ silence, Lettice crept up to him and put her hand 
within his arm. 

“ Forgive me, Sydney, I spoke too bitterly ; but it has 
been very hard sometimes.” 

“ I would have helped if I had known,” said Sydney 
gloomily. 

“ I know you would, dear. And he always knew it, too. 
That was the reason why he told me to keep silence — for 
fear of hampering you in your career. He has often said 
to me that he wished to keep the knowledge of his difficul- 
ties from you, because he knew you would be generous 
and kind ” 

Tears choked her voice. Her brother, who had hitherto 
been quite unresponsive to her caresses, put out his right 
hand and stroked the trembling fingers that rested on his 
left arm. He was leaning against the old oak table, where 
his father’s books and papers had stood for so many years ; 
and some remembranee of bygone days when he and Let- 
tice, as boy and girl, sat together with their grammars a^id 
lexicons at that very place, occurred a little dimly to his 
mind. But what was a dim memory to him was very clear 
and distinct to Lettice. 

“Oh, Sydney, do you remember how we used to work 
here with father ? ” she broke out. “ How many hours we 
spent here together — reading the same books, thinking the 
same thoughts — and now we seem so divided, so very far 
apart ! You have not quite forgotten those old days, have 
you ? ” 

“ No, I have not forgotten them,” said Sydney, in a 
rather unsteady voice. Poor Lettice ! She had counted 
for very little in his life for the last few years, and yet, as 
she reminded him, what companions they had been before 
he went to Cambridge ! A suddenly roused instinct of 
compassion and protection caused him to put his arm round 
her and to speak with unu:>.ual tenderness. 

“ I won’t forget those old times, Lettice. Perhaps we 
shall be able to see more of each other by and bye than 
we have done lately. You have been a good girl, never 
wanting any change or amusement all these years ; but I’ll 
do my best to look after you now.” 


J\rAM£ AND FAME, 


45 


‘‘ I began to think you did not care for any of us, Syd- 
ney.” 

“ Nonsense,” said Sydney, and he kissed her forehead 
affectionately before he left the study, where, indeed, he 
felt that he had stayed a little too long, and given Lettice 
an unusual advantage over him. He was not destitute of 
natural affections, but they had so long been obscured by 
the mists of selfishness that he found it difficult to let them 
appear — and more difficult with his sister than with his 
mother. Lettice seemed to him to exact too much, to be 
too intense in feeling, too critical in observation. He was 
fond of her, but she was not at all his ideal woman — if he 
had one. Sydney’s preference was for what he called “ a 
womanly woman ” : not one who knew Greek. 

He made a brave and manly effort to wind up his father’s 
affairs and pay his outstanding debts. He was so far 
stirred out of himself that it hardly occurred to his mind 
that a slur would be left on him if these debts were left 
unpaid : his strongest motive just now w^as the sense of 
right and wrong, and he knew, too late, that it was right 
for him to take up the load which his own acts had made 
so heavy. 

The rector had died absolutely penniless. His insurance 
policy, his furniture, the whole of his personal effects, 
barely sufficed to cover the money he had borrowed. What 
Sydney did w^as to procure the means of discharging at 
once all the household bills, and the expenses connected 
with the funeral. 

“ And now,” he said to Lettice, when the last of these 
dues had been paid off and they took their last stroll to- 
gether through the already half dismantled rooms of the 
desolate old Rectory, I feel more of a man than I have 
felt since that terrible night, and I want to get back to my 
work.” 

“ I am afraid you will have to work very hard, dear ! ” 
said Lettice, laying her hand on his arm, rather timidly. 
How she still yearned for the full measure of mutual confi- 
dence and sympathy ! 

“ Hard work will be good for me,” he said, his keen 
blue eyes lighting up as if with ardor for the fray. “ I 
shall soon wipe off old scores, and there’s nothing like 
knowing you have only yourself to look to. My practice, 
you know, is pretty good already, and it will be very good 
by and bye.” 


46 


JVAME AND FAME, 


I am so glad ! ” 

“ Yes. Andj of course, you must never have any anxiety 
about mother and yourself. I shall see to all that. You 
are going to stay with the Grahams for a while, so I can 
come over one day and discuss it. I don’t suppose I shall 
ever marry, but whether I do or not, I shall always set 
apart a certain sum for mother and you.” 

“ I have been thinking about the future,” said Lettice, 
quietly. She always spoke in a low, musical voice, without 
gesture, but not without animation, producing on those 
who heard her the impression that she had formed her 
opinions beforehead, and was deliberate in stating them. 
“ Do you know, Sydney, that I can earn a very respectable 
income ? ” 

“ Earn an income ! You ! ” he said, with a wrinkle in 
his forehead, and a curl in his nostrils. “ I will not hear 
of such a thing. I cannot have my sister a dependent in 
other people’s houses — a humble governess or companion. 
How could you dream of it ! ” 

“ I have not dreamed of that,” said Lettice. “ I do not 
think I should like it myself. I simply stay at home and 
write. I earned seventy pounds last year, and Mr. Gra- 
ham says I could almost certainly earn twice as much if I 
were living in London.” 

“ AVhy was I not told of this ? ” said Sydney, with an air 
of vexation. “ What do you write? ” 

“ Essays, and now and then a review, and little stories.” 

“ Little stories — ouf ! ” he muttered, in evident disgust. 
“ You don’t put your name to these things ! ” 

“ I did to one article, last March, in The Decade.” 

“ That is Graham’s magazine, and I daresay Graham 
, asked you to sign your name. When I see him I shall tell 
him it was done without sufficient consideration.” 

“ All articles are signed in The Decade” said Lettice. 
She did not think it worth while to mention that Graham 
had written her a very flattering letter about her article, 
telling her that it had attracted notice — that the critics 
said she had a style of her own, and was likely to make 
her mark. The letter had reached her on the morning 
before her father’s death, and she had found but a brief 
satisfaction in it at the time. 

“ I think you had better not say anything to Mr. Graham,” 
she continued. “ They have both been very kind, and 
we shall not have too many friends in London.” 


J\rAM£ AND FAME. 


47 


‘‘ Why do you want to live in London ? ” 

“I think I should like it, and mother would like it too. 
You know she has fifty pounds a year of her own, and if 
what Mr. Graham says is right we shall be able to live very 
comfortably.” 

“ I can’t say I like this writing for a living,” he said. 

“ I suppose we cannot have everything as we like it. 
And, besides, I do like it. It is congenial work, and it 
makes me feel independent.” 

“ It is not always good for women to be independent. It 
is dangerous.” 

She laughed — a pleasant little rallying laugh. 

I hope you will not be shocked,” she said. I have 
set my heart on being perfectly independent of you and 
everybody else.” 

He saw that she would have her way, and let the subject 
drop. 

A few weeks afterwards, Lettice and her mother had 
packed up their belongings and went to London. The 
Grahams were delighted to have them, for Lettice was a 
great favorite with both. James Graham was a literary 
man of good standing, who, in addition to editing The 
Decade^ wrote for one of the weekly papers, and reviewed 
books in his special lines for one of the dailies. By dint 
of hard work, and carefully nursing his connection, he 
contrived to make a living ; and that was all. Literary 
work is not well paid as a rule. There is fair pay to be 
had on the staff of the best daily papers, but that kind of 
work requires a special aptitude. It requires, in particu- 
lar, a supple and indifferent mind, ready to take its cue 
from other people, with the art of representing things from 
day to day not exactly as they are, but as an editor or 
paymaster wants them to appear. If we suffered our 
journalists to sign their articles, they would probably write 
better, with more self-respect and a higher sense of respon- 
sibility j they would become stronger in themselves, and 
would be more influential with their readers. As it is, few 
men with vigorous and original minds can endure beyond 
a year or two of political leader-writing. 

Graham had tried it, and the ordeal was too difficult for 
him. Now he had a greater scope for his abilities, and less 
money for his pains. 

Clara Graham was the daughter of a solicitor in Angle- 
ford, and had known Lettice Campion from childhood. 


48 


JVAME AND FAME. 


She was a pretty woman, thoroughly good-hearted, with 
tastes and powers somewhat in advance of her education. 
Perhaps she stood a little in awe of Lettice, and wondered 
occasionally whether her husband considered a woman 
who knew Latin and Greek, and wrote clever articles in 
The Decade, superior to one who had no such accomplish- 
ments, though she might be prettier, and the mother of his 
children, and even the darner of his stockings. But Clara 
was not without wits, so she did not propound questions 
of that sort to her husband ; she reserved them for her own 
torment, and then expiated her jealousy by being kinder to 
Lettice than ever. 

Lettice’s plans were far more fixed and decided than 
Sydney knew. She had corresponded very fully and frank- 
ly with the Grahams on the subject, and Mr. Graham was 
already looking about for a place where she could set up 
her household gods. It was no use to consult Mrs. Cam- 
pion on the subject. Her husband's death had thrown her 
into a state of mental torpor which seemed at first to bor- 
der upon imbecility ; and although she recovered to some 
extent from the shock, her health had been too much sha- 
ken to admit of complete recovery. Thenceforward she 
was an invalid and an old woman, who had abnegated her 
will in favor of her daughter’s, and asked for nothing bet- 
ter than to be governed as well as cared for. The change 
was a painful one to Lettice, but practically it left her freer 
than ever, for her mother wanted little companionship, and 
was quite as happy with the maid that Lettice had brought 
from Angleford as with Lettice herself. The visit to the 
Grahams was an excellent thing both for Mrs. Campion 
and for her daughter. Clara managed to win the old lady’s 
heart, and so relieved her friend of much of her anxiety. 
The relief came not a moment too soon, for the long strain 
to which Lettice had been subjected began to tell upon her 
and she was sorely in need of rest. The last three or four 
years had been a time of almost incessant worry to her. 
She had literally had the care of the household on her 
shoulders, and it had needed both courage and endurance 
of no ordinary kind to enable her to discharge her task 
without abandoning that inner and intellectual life which 
had become so indispensable to her well-being. The sud- 
den death of her father was a paralyzing blow, but the care 
exacted from her by her mother had saved her from the 


JVAME AND FAME, 


49 


physical collapse which it might have brought about. Now, 
when the necessity for immediate exertion had passed away, 
the reaction was very great, and it was fortunate that she 
had at this crisis the bracing companionship of James 
Graham, and Clara’s friendly and stimulating acerbities. 

Lettice had reached the age of five and twenty without 
experiencing either love, or intimate friendship, or intellec- 
tual sympathy. She had had neither of those two things 
which a woman, and especially an intellectual woman, 
constantly craves, and in the absence of which she 
cannot be happy. Either of the two may suffice for 
happiness, both together would satisfy her completely, 
but the woman who has not one or the other is a stranger 
to content. The nature of a woman requires either equal- 
ity of friendship, a free exchange of confidence, trust and 
respect — having which, she can put up with a good deal of 
apparent coldness and dryness of heart in her friend ; or 
else she wants the contrasted savor of life, caressing words, 
, demonstrations of tenderness, amenities and attentions, 
which keep her heart at rest even if they do not satisfy her 
.. whole nature. If she gets neither of these things the love 
or friendship never wakes, or, having been aroused, it dies 
of inanition. 

So it was with Lettice. The one oasis in the wilderness 
of her existence had been the aftermath of love which 
sprang up between her and her father in the last few years, 
when she felt him depending upon her, confiding and trust- 
ing in her, and when she had a voice in the shaping of his 
life. But even this love, unsurpassable in its tenderness, 
was only as a faint shadow in a thirsty land. Such as it 
was, she had lost it, and the place which it had occupied 
was an aching void. 

The one desire left to her at present was to become an 
absolutely independent woman. This meant that she 
should work hard for her living in her own way, and that 
she should do what seemed- good and pleasant to her, be- 
cause it seemed good and pleasant, not because it was the 
way of the world, or the way of a house, or the routine of 
a relative or an employer. It meant that she should keep 
her mother under her own eye, in comfort and decency, 
not lodged with strangers to mope out her life in dreary 
solitude. It meant also that she should not be a burden 


4 


50 


JVAME AND FAME. 


on Sydney — or, in plain terms, that she should not take 
Sydney’s money, either for herself or her mother. 

Indeed, the consciousness that sh'e had to work for 
another, and to be her protection and support, was not only 
bracing but cheering in its effects, and Lettice now turned 
towards her writing-table with an energy which had been 
wanting when her efforts were for herself alone. 

The Rectory household had been reduced as much as 
possible during the last few months, and only two servants 
remained at the time of the rector’s death : one, an elder- 
ly cook, who was content for the love of “ Miss Lettice ” 
to do the work of a general servant; and a young girl of 
eighteen, who had lived at the Rectory and been trained 
for domestic service under Mrs. Campion’s eye ever since 
her parents’ death, which had occurred when she was fif- 
teen years of age. Emily, or Milly Harrington, as she 
was generally called, was a quick, clever girl, very neat- 
handed and fairly industrious ; and it seemed to Lettice, 
when she decided upon going to London, that she could 
not do better than ask Milly to go too. The girl’s great 
blue eyes opened with a flash of positive rapture. “ Go 
with you to London ? Oh, Miss Lettice ! ” 

“ You would like it, Milly ? ” said Lettice, wondering at 
her excitement, and thinking that she had never before 
noticed how pretty Millie Harrington had grown of late. 

“ Oh, of all things in the world, miss, I’ve wanted to go 
to London ! ” said Milly, flushing all over her face through 
the clear white skin which was one of her especial beauties. 

There was very little trace of commonness in Milly’s 
good looks. Three years of life at the Rectory had re- 
fined her appearance, as also her manners and ways of 
speech ; and Lettice thought that it would be far plea- 
santer to keep Milly about her than to go through the 
agonies of a succession of pert London girls. Yet some- 
thing in Milly’s eagerness to go, as well as the girl’s fresh, 
innocent, country air, troubled her with a vague sense of 
anxiety. Was not London said to be a place of tempta- 
tion for inexperienced country girls ? Could she keep 
Milly safe and innocent if she took her away from Angle- 
ford ? 

“ You would have all the work of the house to do, and 
to look after Mrs. Campion a little as well,” she said seek- 
ing to put her vague anxiety into the form of a warning or 
an objection. But Milly only smiled. 


J\rAM£ AND FAME, 


5 * 


^^I’m very strong, Miss Lettice. I am sure I can do all 
that you want. And I should like to go to London 
with you. One hears such fine tales of London — and I 
don’t want to leave mistress and you.” Though this was 
evidently an afterthought. 

“You will see very little of London, Milly; I shall live 
in a very quiet part,” said Lettice. “ And I shall want you 
to be very good and steady, and take care of my mother 
when I am busy. I shall have to work hard now^ you 
know ; quite as hard as you.” 

Milly looked up quickly ; there was inquiry in her eyes. 
But she answered only by protestations of good behavior 
and repeated desires to go with her young mistress ; and 
Lettice gave her a promise, subject to the consent of Milly’s 
grandmother, who lived at Birchmead, that she would take 
the girl with her when she went away. 

Old Mrs. Harrington had no objection at all to Milly’s 
going to London. “ Indeed, Miss Lettice,” she said, “ I’m 
only too glad to think of your looking after her, for Milly’s 
not got much sense, I’m afraid, although she’s a woman 
grown.” 

“ I always thought her unusually clever and sensible,” 
said Lettice, in sorne surprise. 

“ Clever, miss, she always was, but sensible’s a different 
affair. Her head’s filled with foolishness, all along of her 
reading story books, I tell her ; and she’s got an idea that 
her pretty face will bring her a rich husband, and I don*t 
know what beside. I shall be obliged to you, miss, if you’ll 
kindly keep a sharp eye and a tight hand over Milly. Not 
but what she’s a good kind-hearted girl,” said the old wo- 
man, relenting a little, as she saw a rather startled expres- 
sion on Miss Campion’s face, “ and I don’t think there’s 
any harm in her, but girls are always better for being 
looked after, that is all.” 

“ I’ll try to take care of Milly,” said Lettice, as she rose 
to go. “ But my care will be of very little use if she does 
not take care of herself.” 

She was fated on the same day to hear a remonstrance 
from the doctor’s wife, Mrs. Budworth, on the subject of 
her choice of a servant. Mrs. Budworth was a noted 
busybody, who knew everybody’s business better than the 
rest of the world. 


52 


JSTAME AND FAME, 


“ Oh, Lettice, dear,” she said, “ I do hope it’s not true 
that you are going to take that silly girl, Milly Harring- 
ton, up to London with you.” 

“ Why not? You cannot know anything against her,” 
said Lettice, who was becoming a little angry. 

“ Well, perhaps not — only she is so very pretty, and 
London is so full of temptations for a pretty girl of that 
class ! ” 

“ We shall live so quietly that she will have no more 
temptations there than here, Mrs. Bndworth.” 

“ You can’t tell that, my dear — once you get a girl away 
from her friends and relations. However, she has only 
her old grandmother to fall back on, and she seems a well- 
meaning girl enough, and perhaps she won’t be considered 
so pretty in London as she has the name of being here. I 
hope she will keep straight. I’m sure ; it would be such a 
worry to you, Lettice, if anything went wrong.” 

“ Poor Milly ! ” said Lettice to herself, as she walked 
home in a state of blazing indignation ; “ how easily that 
woman would undermine your reputation — or that of any- 
body else ! Milly is a dear, good little girl ; and as for 
her being so pretty — well, it is not her fault, and I don^t 
see why it should be her rnisfortuneT I will look well 
after her when we are in London, and it will be for her 
good, I believe, to stay with us. What an absurd fuss to 
make about such a trifle ! ” 

So she dismissed the matter from her mind, remember- 
ing it only from time to time when she was making her 
new household arrangements, and carefully planning to 
keep Milly out of every possible danger. 

But dangers are oftener from within than from without. 
While Lettice walked homeward after her talk with Mrs. 
Budworth, Milly Harrington had locked herself into her 
own room, and was experimenting with her pretty curling 
hair before the looking-glass. She wanted to see herself 
with a “ fringe ” — a thing that was strictly forbidden at 
the Rectory, and she had brushed the soft little curls that 
were generally hidden beneath her cap well over her fore- 
head. Then she stood and gazed at the reflection of the 
fair locks, the large blue eyes, the graceful neck and 
shoulders. “ I suppose I look pretty,” she was saying to 
herself. “ I’ve been told so often enough. Mr. Sydney 
thought so when he was here at Christmas, I’m sure of 


J\rAM£ AND FAME. 


S3 


that. This time, of course, he was so taken up with his 
father’s death, and other things, that he never noticed me. 
But I shall see him again.” 

A faint color mantled in her cheeks, and her eyes began 
to sparkle. 

‘‘ Beauty’s a great power. I’ve heard,” she said to her- 
self, still looking at that fair image in the glass. “ There’s 
no knowing what I mayn’t do if I meet the right person. 
And one meets nobody in Angleford. In London — things 
may be different.” 

Different, indeed, but not as poor Milly fancied the 
difference. 

And then she brushed back her curls, and fastened up 
her black dress, and tied a clean muslin apron round her 
trim little figure before going downstairs ; and when she 
brought in the tea-tray that afternoon, Lettice looked at 
her with pleasure and admiration, and thought how sweet 
and good a girl she was, and how she had won the Prayer- 
Book prize at the Diocesan Inspector’s examination, and 
of the praise that the rector had given her for her well- 
written papers at the Confirmation Class, and of her own 
kindly and earnest teaching of all things that were good in 
Lettice’s eyes ; and she decided that Mrs. Harrington and 
Mrs. Budworth were mere croakers, and that poor Milly 
would never come to harm. 





BOOK II. 


CHANGE. 

“ Yet the twin habit of that early time 

Lingered for long about the heart and tongue; 

We had been natives of 900 happy clime. 

And its dear accent to our utterance clung. 

Till the dire years whose awful name is Change 
Had grasped our souls, still yearning in divorce, 

And pitiless shaped them in two forms that range— 

Two elements which sever their life’s course.” 

George Eliot. 


• ^ 





JVAM£ AND FAME, 


57 


CHAPTER VI. 

NEW BEGINNINGS. 

“ Poor dear Lettice ! how she must have suffered ! ” said 
Clara Graham. 

“ Less than you suppose/’ rejoined her husband. 

“ Jim, what do you mean ? You are very hard-hearted.” 

“ No, I’m not ! I’m only practical. Your friend. Miss 
Campion, has been a source of lamentation and woe to 
you ever since I made your acquaintance. According to 
you, she was always being sacrificed to that intolerable 
prig of a brother of hers. Theji she was immolated on the 
altar of her father’s money difficulties and her mother’s ill- 
health. Now she has got a fair field, and can live where 
she likes and exercise her talents as she pleases ; and as I 
can be as unfeeling as I like in the bosom of my family, I 
will at once acknowledge that I am very glad the old man’s 
gone.” 

“ I do hope and trust, Jim ” 

“ That I am not a born fool, my dear? ” 

“ — That you won’t say these things to Lettice herself.” 

“ Exactly. That is what I knew you were going to 
say.” 

“ If it weren’t that I am certain you do not mean half 
you say ” 

“ I mean all that I say : every word of it. But I’ll tell 
you W’hat, Clara : I believe that Lettice Campion is a 
woman of great talent — possibly even of genius — and that 
she has never yet been able to give her talents full play. 
She has the chance now, and I hope she’ll use it.” 

“ Oh, Jim, dear, do you think she is so sure to succeed ? ” 

“ If she doesn’t, it will be pure cussedness on her part, 
and nothing else,” said Jim. 

Clara reflected that she would tell Lettice what her hus- 
band said. She moved to the window and looked out. 
She was waiting for her guests, Lettice and Mrs. Campion, 


58 


NAME AND FAME, 


in the soft dusk of a sweet May evening, and she was a 
little impatient for their arrival. She had had a comfort- 
able, nondescript meal, which she called dinner-tea, set 
ready for them in the dining-room, and as this room was 
near the hall-door, she had installed herself therein, so 
that she could the more easily watch for her visitors. Mr. 
Graham, a tall, thin man, with coal-black beard, deep-set 
dark eyes, and marked features, had thrown himself into a 
great arm-chair, where he sat buried in the current num- 
ber of a monthly magazine. His wife was universally de- 
clared to be a very pretty woman, and she was even more 
“ stylish,” as women say, than pretty ; for she had one of 
those light, graceful figures that give an air of beauty to 
everything they wear. For the rest, she had well-cut fea- 
tures, bright dark eyes, and a very winning smile. A 
brightly impulsive and affectionate nature had especially 
endeared her to Lettice, and this had never been soured 
or darkened by her experiences of the outer world, 
although, like most people, she had known reverses of 
fortune and was not altogether free from care. But her 
husband loved her, and her three babies were the most 
charming children ever seen, and everybody admired the 
decorations of her bright little house in Edwardes Square ; 
and what more could the heart of womankind desire ? 

“ I wonder,” she said presently, “ whether Sydney will 
come with them. He was to meet them at Liverpool 
Street ; and of course I asked him to come on.” 

“ I would have gone out if you had told me that before,” 
said Mr. Graham, tersely. 

“ Why do you dislike Sydney Campion so much, Jim ? ” 

“ Dislike ? I admire him. I think he is the coming 
man. He’s one of the most successful persons of my 
acquaintance. It is just because I feel so small beside him 
that I can’t stand his company.” 

“ I must repeat, Jim, that if you talk like that to Let- 
tice ” 

“ Oh, Lettice doesn’t adore her precious brother,” said 
Graham, irreverently. “ She knows as well as you and I 
do that 'he’s a selfish sort of brute, in spite of his good 
looks and his gift of the gab. I say, Clara, when are these 
folks coming? I’m confoundedly hungry.” 

“ W’ho’s the selfish brute now ? ” asked Clara, with 
triumph. “ But you won’t be kept waiting long : the cab’s 
stopping at the door, and Sydney hasn’t come.” 


A^AME AND FAME. 


S9 

She flew to the door, to be the first to meet and greet 
her visitors. There was not much to be got from Mrs. 
Campion that evening except tears — this was evident as 
soon as she entered the house, leaning on Lettice’s arm; 
and the best thing was to put her at once to bed, and delay 
the evening meal until Lettice was able to leave her. 
Graham was quite too good-natured to grumble at a delay 
for which there was so valid a reason ; for, as he informed 
his wife, he preferred Miss Campion’s conversation without 
an accompaniment of groans. He talked lightly, but his 
grasp of the hand was so warm, his manner so sympathetic, 
when Lettice at last came down, that Clara felt herself 
rebuked at having for one moment doubted the real kind- 
liness of his feeling. 

Lettice in her deep mourning looked painfully white and 
slender in Clara’s eyes ; but she spoke cheerfully of her 
prospects for the future, as they sat at their evening meal. 
Sad topics were not broached, and Mr. Graham set himself 
to give her all the encouragement in his power. 

“ And as to where you are to set up your tent,” he said, 
“Clara and I have seen a cottage on Brook Green that we 
think would suit you admirably.” 

“ Where is Brook Green ? ” asked Lettice, who was 
almost ignorant of any save the main thoroughfares of 
London. 

“ In the wilds of Hammersmith ” 

“ West Kensington,” put in Clara, rather indignantly. 

“ Well, West Kensington is only Hammersmith writ fine. 
It is about ten minutes’ walk from us* — 

“ Oh, I am glad of that,” said Lettice. 

“ — And it is not, I think, too large or too dear. You 
must go and look at it to-morrow, if you can.” 

“ Is there any garden ? ” 

“ There is a garden, with trees under which your mother 
can sit when it it warm. Clara told me you would like 
that j and there is a grass-plot — I won’t call it a lawn — 
where you can let your dog and cat disport themselves in 
safety. I am sure you must have brought a dog or a cat 
with you. Miss Campion. I never yet knew a young woman 
from the country who did not bring a pet animal to town 
with her.” 

“ Jim, you are very rude,” said his wife. 

“ I shall have to plead guilty,” Lettice answered, smiling 
a little. “ I have left my fair Persian, Flufl", in the care of 


6o 


NAME AND FAME. 


my maid, Milly, who is to bring her to London as soon as 
I can get into my new home.” 

“ Fluff,” said Clara, meditatively, is the creature with a 
tail as big as your arm, and a ruff round her neck, and 
Milly is the pretty little housemaid ; I remember and ap- 
prove of them both.” 

The subject of the new house served them until they 
went upstairs into Clara’s bright little" drawing-room, which 
Graham used to speak of disrespectfully as his wife’s doll’s 
house. It was crowded with pretty but inexpensive knick- 
knacks, the profusion of which was rather bewildering to 
Lettice, with her more simple tastes. Of one thing she 
was quite sure, that she would not, when she furnished her 
own rooms, expend much money in droves of delicately- 
colored china pigs and elephants, which happened to be in 
fashion at the time. She also doubted the expediency of 
tying up two peacocks’ feathers with a yellow ribbon, and 
hanging them in solitary glory on the wall flanked by plates 
of Kaga ware, at tenpence-halfpenny a-piece. Lettice’s 
taste had been formed by her father, and was somewhat 
masculine in its simplicity, and she cared only for the finer 
kinds of art, whether in porcelain or ])ainting. But she 
was fain to confess that the effect of Clara’s decorations 
was very pretty, and she wondered at the care and pains 
which had evidently been spent on the arrangement of 
Mrs. Graham’s “ Liberty rags” and Oriental ware. When 
the soft yellow silk curtains were drawn, and a subdued 
light fell through ‘the jewelled facets of an Eastern lamp 
upon the peacock fans and richly-toned Syrian rugs, and 
all the other hackneyed ornamentation by which “ artistic ” 
taste is supposed to be shown, Lettice could not but 
acknowledge that the room was charming. But her 
thoughts flew back instantly to the old study at home, 
with its solid oak furniture, its cushioned window-seats, its 
unfashionable curtains of red moreen ; and in the faint 
sickness of that memory, it seemed to her that she could be 
more comfortable at a deal table, with a kitchen chair set 
upon unpolished boards, than in the midst of Clara’s pretty 
novelties. 

“ You are tired,” Mr. Graham said to her, watching her 
keenly as she sat down in the chair that he offered her, 
and let her hands sink languidly upon her lap. “ We won’t 
let you talk too much. Clara is going to sec after her bairns, 


J\rAM£ AND FAME. 


6i 


and I’m going to read the Pall Mall. Here’s the May 
number of The Decade : have you seen it ? ” 

She took it with a grateful smile ; but she did not intend 
to read, and Mr. Graham knew it. He perused his paper 
diligently, but he was sufficiently interested in her to know 
exactly at what point she ceased to brood and began to 
glance at the magazine. After a little while, she became 
absorbed in its pages ; and only when she laid it down 
at last, with a half suppressed sigh, did he openly look up 
to find that her eyes were full of tears. 

“ I hope that you discovered something to interest you,” 
he said. 

“ I was reading a poem,” Lettice answered, rather guilt- 
ily. 

Oh — Alan Walcott’s ‘ Sorrow ’ ? Very well done, isn’t 
it ? but a trifle morbid, all the same.” 

‘‘It is very sad. Is he — has he had much trouble 1 ” 

“ I’m sure I couldn’t tell you. Probably not, as he 
writes about it,” said Graham, grimly. “ He’s a pessimist 
and a bit of a dilletante. If he would work and believe in 
himself a little more, I think he might do great things.” 

“He is young?” 

“ Over thirty. He comes to the house sometimes. I 
daresay you will meet him before long.” 

Lettice said nothing. She was not in a mood to enjoy 
the prospect of making new acquaintances ; but the poem 
had touched her, and she felt a slight thrill of interest in 
its writer. 

“ Yes,” she said, “ I shall be pleased to make his 
acquaintance — some day.” And then the conversation 
dropped, and Graham understood from her tone that she 
was not disposed as yet to meet new faces. 

The house on Brook Green proved eminently satisfac- 
tory. She agreed to take it as soon as possible, and for 
the next few weeks her mind was occupied with the pur- 
chase and arrangement of furniture, and the many details 
which belong to the first start in a new career. Although 
her tastes differed widely from those of Clara Graham, she 
found her friend’s advice and assistance infinitely valuable 
to her ; and many were the expeditions taken together to 
the Kensington shops to supply Lettice’s requirements. 
She had not Clara’s love for shopping, or Clara’s eagerness 
for a bargain ; but she took pleasure in her visits to the 


62 


NAME AND FAME. 


great London store-houses of beautiful things, and made 
her purchases with care and deliberation. 

So at the end of June she settled down with her mother 
in the pleasant cottage which was thenceforth to be their 
home. In addition to the new plenishing, there were in 
the house a few favorite pieces of furniture which had been 
• saved from the wreck at Angleford ; and Sydney — perhaps 
as a sign that he recognized some redeeming features in 
her desire to be independent — had made one room look 
quite imposing with an old-fashioned bookcase, and a 
library table and chair. There was a well-established 
garden behind the house, with tall box and bay-trees of 
more than a generation’s growth, and plenty of those old 
English border plants without which a garden is scarcely 
worthy of its name. On the whole, Lettice felt that she 
had not made a bad selection out of the million or so of 
human habitations which overflow the province of London ; 
and even Mrs. Campion would occasionally end her lamen- 
tations over the past by admitting that Maple Cottage was 
“ not a workhouse, my dear, where I might have expected 
to finish my life.” 

The widow had a fixed idea about the troubles which 
had fallen upon her. She would talk now and then of the 
“ shameful robberies ” which had broken her husband’s 
heart, and declare that sooner or later the miscreants would 
be discovered, and restitution would be made, and they 
would “ all end their days in peace.” As for Sydney, he 
was still her hero of heroes, who had come to their rescue 
when their natural protector was done to death, and whose 
elevation to the woolsack might be expected at any mo- 
ment. 

Lettice’s friends, the Grahams, had naturally left her 
almost undisturbed during her visit to them, so far as 
invited guests were concerned. Nevertheless, she casually 
met several of Mr. Graham’s literary acquaintances, and 
he took care to introduce her to one or two editors and 
publishers whom he thought likely to be useful to her. 
James Graham had plenty of tact; he knew just what to 
say about Miss Campion, without saying too much, and he 
contrived to leave an impression in the minds of those to 
whom he spoke that it might be rather difficult to make 
this young woman sit down and write, but decidedly worth 
their while to do it if they could. 


NAMB AND FAME, 


63 


Now I have thrown in the seeds,’' Graham said to her 
before she left Edwardes Square, “ and by the time you 
want to see them the blades will be springing up. From 
what you have told me I should say that you have quite 
enough to do in the next three months. There is that 
article for me, and the translation of Feuerbach, and the 
Ouf stories.” 

'I'his reminiscence of Sydney’s criticism made Lettice 
laugh — she was beginning to laugh again — and Graham’s 
forecast of her future as a woman of letters put her into a 
cheerful and hopeful mood. 

The summer passed away, and the autumn, and when 
Lettice lighted her first study fire, one cold day at the end 
of October, she could look forward to the coming winter 
without misgiving, In four months she had done fifty 
pounds’ worth of work, and she had commissions which 
would keep her busy for six months more, and would yield 
at least twice as much money. Mr. Graham’s seeds were 
beginning to send up their blades ; and, in short, Lettice 
was in a very fair way of earning not only a living, but also 
a good literary repute. 

One call, indeed, was made upon her resources in a 
very unexpected manner. She had put by four five-pound 
notes of clear saving — it is at such moments that our un- 
expected liabilities are wont to find us out — and she was 
just congratulating herself on that first achievement in the 
art of domestic thrift when her maid Milly knocked at her 
door, and announced a visitor. 

“ Please, miss, here is Mrs. Bundlecombe of Thor- 
ley ! ” 

Mrs. Bundlecombe was a bookseller in her own right, in 
a village some three miles from Angleford. Her husband 
had died four years before Mr. Campion, and his widow 
made an effort to carry on the business. The rector in his 
palmy days had had many dealings with Mr. Bundlecombe, 
who was of some note in the world as a collector of 
second-hand books; but, as Lettice had no reason to 
think that he had bought anything of Mrs. Bundlecombe 
personally, she could not imagine what the object of this 
visit might be. 

“ Did she say what her business was, Milly ? ” 

“ No, miss. Only she said she had heard you were 
living here, and she would like to see you, please.” 


^^AME AND FAME, 


64 


Milly’s relations had lived in Thorley. Thus she knew 
Mrs. Bundlecombe by sight, and, being somewhat inquisi- 
tive by nature, she had already tried to draw the visitor 
into conversation, but without success. 

“ Show her in,” said Lettice, after a moment’s pause. 
It was pleasant, after all, to meet a “ kent face ” in London 
solitudes, and she felt quite kindly towards Mrs. Bundle- 
combe, whom she had sometimes seen over the counter in 
her shop at Thorley. So she received her with gentle 
cordiality. 

Mrs. Bundlecombe showed symptoms of embarrassment 
at the quiet friendliness of Lettice’s manners. She was 
not a person of aristocratic appearance, for she was short 
and very stout, and florid into the bargain ; but her broad 
face was both shrewd and kindly, and her grey eyes were 
observant and good-humored. Her grey hair was arranged 
in three flat curls, fastened with small black combs on each 
side of her face, which was rosy and wrinkled like a russet 
apple, and her full purple skirt, her big bonnet, adorned 
with bows of scarlet ribbon, and her much be-furbelowed 
and be-spangled dolman, attested the fact that she had 
donned her best clothes for the occasion of her visit, and 
that Thorley fashions differed from those of the metropolis. 
She wore gloves with one button, moreover, and boots with 
elastic sides. 

Mrs. Bundlecombe seemed to have some difficulty in 
coming to the point. She told Lettice much Angleford 
news, including a piece of information that interested her 
a good deal : namely, that the old squire, after many years 
of suffering, was dead, and that his nephew, Mr. Brooke 
Dalton, had at last succeeded to the property. “ He’s not 
there very much, however : he leaves the house pretty 
much to his sister. Miss Edith Dalton ; but it’s to be 
hoped that he’ll marry soon and bfing a lady to the 
place.” 

Lettice wondered again why Mrs. Bundlecombe had 
called upon her. There seemed very little point in her 
remarks. But the good woman had a very sufficient reason 
for her call. She was a practical-minded person, and she 
was moreover a literary woman in her way, as behoved the 
widow of a bookseller who had herself taken to selling 
books. It is true that her acquaintance with the works of 
British authors did not extend far bevond their titles, but 


NAME AND FAME, 


65 


it was to her credit that she contrived to make so much as 
she did out of her materials. She might have known as 
many insides of books as she knew outsides, and have put 
them to less practical service. 

“ Well, she said, after a quarter of an hour’s incessant 
talk, “ you will be wondering what brought me here, and 
10 be sure, miss, I hardly like to say it now I’ve come ; but, 
as I argued with myself, the rights of man are the rights of 
man, and to do your best by them who depend on you is 
the whole duty of man, which applies, I take it, to woman 
also. And when my poor dear husband died, I thought 
the path of duty was marked out for me, and I went 
through my daily exercises, so to speak, just as he had done 
for forty years. But times were bad, and I could make 
nothing of it. He had ways of selling books that I could 
never understand, and I soon saw that the decline and fall 
was setting in. So I have sold the business for what it 
would fetch, and paid all that was owing, and I can assure 
you that there is very little left. I have a nephew in Lon- 
don who is something in the writing way liimself. He 
used to live with us at Thorley, and he is a dear dutiful 
boy, but he has had great troubles ; so I am going to keep 
his rooms for him, and take care of his linen, and look 
after things a bit. I came up to-day to talk to him about 
it. 

“ Well, 'Miss Campion, the long and short of it is that 
as I was looking over my husband’s state documents, so to 
speak, which he had kept in a private drawer, and which 
I had never found until I was packing up to go, I found a 
paper signed by your respected father, less than three 
months before my good man went to his saint’s everlasting 
rest. You see, miss, it is an undertaking to pay Samuel 
Bundlecombe the sum of twenty pounds in six months 
from date, for value received, but owing to my husband 
dying that sudden, and not telling me of his private drawer, 
this paper was never presented.” 

Lettice took the paper and read it, feeling rather sick at 
heart, for two or three reasons. If her father had made 
this promise she felt sure that he would either have kept 
it or have put down the twenty pounds in his list of debts. 
The list, indeed, which had been handed to Sydney was in 
her own writing, and certainly the name of Bundlecombe 
was not included in it. Was the omission her fault ? If 

5 


66 


J\rAM£ AND FAME. 


the money had never been paid, that was what she would 
prefer to believe. 

“ I thought, miss,” her visitor continued, “ that there 
might be some mention of this in Mr. Campion’s papers, 
and, having heard that all the accounts were properly 
settled, I made bold to bring it to your notice. It is a 
kind of social contract, you see, and a solemn league and 
covenant, as between man and man, which I am sure you 
would like to settle if the means exist. Not but what it 
seems a shame to come to a lady on such an errand ; and 
I may tell you miss, fair and candid, that I have been to 
Mr. Sydney Campion in the Temple, who does not admit 
that he is liable. That may be law, or it may not, but I 
do consider that this signature ought to be worth the 
money.” 

Lettice took the paper again. There could be no doubt 
as to its genuineness, and the fact that Sydney had denied 
his liability influenced her in some subtle manner to do 
what she had already half resolved to do without that 
additional argument. 

She looked at the box in which she had put her twenty 
pounds, and she looked at her father’s signature. Then she 
Oldened the box and took out the notes. 

‘‘You did quite right in coming, Mrs. Bundlecombe. 
This is certainly my father’s handwriting, and I suppose 
that if the debt had been settled the paper would not 
have remained in your husband’s possession. Here is the 
money.” 

The old woman could scarcely believe her eyes ; but 
she pocketed the notes with great satisfaction, and began 
to express her admiration for such honorable conduct in a 
very voluble manner. Lettice cut her short and got rid 
of her, and then, if the truth must be confessed, she sat 
down and had a comfortable cry over the speedy dissipation 
of her savings. 


AND J^AM£. 




CHAPTER VII. 

MRS. HARTLEY AT HOME. 

After her first Christmas in London, Lettice began to 
accept invitations to the houses of her acquaintance. 

She dined several times at the Grahams’, where there 
were never more than eight at table, and, being a bright 
talker and an appreciative listener — two qualities which 
do not often go together — she was always an impressive 
personality without exactly knowing it. Clara was ac- 
customed to be outshone by her in conversation, and 
had become used to it, but some of the women whom 
Lettice was invited to meet looked at her rather hard, as 
though they would have liked to draw her serious attention 
to the fact that they were better looking, or better dressed, 
or older or younger than herself, as the case might be, and 
that it was consequently a little improper in her to be talked 
to so much by the men. 

Undoubtedly Lettice got on well with men, and was 
more at her ease with them than with her own sex. It was 
not the effect of forwardness on her part, and indeed she 
was scarcely conscious of the fact. She conversed readily, 
because her mind was full of reading and of thought, and 
her moral courage was never at a loss. The keenness of 
her perception led her to understand and respond to the 
opinions of the cleverest men whom she met, and it was 
not unnatural that they should be flattered. 

It does not take long for a man or woman to earn a 
reputation in the literary circles of London, provided he 
or she has real ability, .and is well introduced. The ability 
will not, as a rule, suffice without the introductions, though 
introductions have been known to create a reputation, 
lasting at any rate for a few months, without any real 
ability. Lettice advanced rapidly in the estimation of 
those whose good opinion was worth having. She soon 
began to discriminate between the people who were worth 


68 


NAME AND FAME, 


cultivating and the people who were not. If a person 
were sincere and straightforward, could say what he 
meant and say it with point and vivacity, or if he pos- 
sessed for her those vaguely attractive and stimulating 
qualities which draw people together without their exactly 
knowing why (probably through some correlation of tem- 
perament), Lettice would feel this person was good to 
know, whether the world approved her choice of friends 
or not. And when she wanted to know man or woman, 
she exerted herself to please — mainly by showing that she 
herself was pleased. She did not exactly flatter — she was 
never insincere — but it amounted to much the same thing 
as flattery. She listened eagerly j her interest was mani- 
fested in her face, her attitude, her answers. In fact she 
was her absolute self, without reserve and without fence. 
No wonder that she incurred the jealousy of half the women 
in her set. 

But this is how an intellectual woman can best please a 
man who has passed the childish age, when he only cared 
for human dolls and dolls’ houses. She must carry her 
intellect about with her, like a brave costume — dressing, 
of course, with taste and harmony — she must not be slow 
to admire the intellectual costume of others, if she wants 
her own to be admired ; she must be subtle enough at the 
same time to forget that she is dressed at all, and yet 
never for a moment forget that her companion may have 
no soul or heart except in his dress. If he has, it is for 
him to prove it, not for her to assume it. 

It was because Lettice had this art of intellectual inter- 
course, and because she exercised it in a perfectly natural 
and artless manner, that she charmed so many of those 
who made her acquaintance, and that they rarely paused 
to consider whether she was prettier or plainer, taller or 
shorter, more or less prepossessing, than the women who 
surrounded her. 

In due time she found herself welcomed at the houses 
of those dear and estimable ladies, who — generally old 
and childless themselves — love to gather round them the 
young and clever acolytes of literature and art, the enthusi- 
astic devotees of science, the generous apprentices of 
constructive politics, for politicians who do not dabble in 
the reformation of society find other and more congenial 
haunts. This many-minded crowd of acolytes, and devo- 


JSTAME AND FAME, 


69 


tees, and apprentices, owe much to the hospitable women 
who bring them together in a sort of indulgent dame’s 
school, where their angles are rubbed down, and whence 
they merge, perhaps, as Arthur Hallam said, the pictu- 
resque of Ilian and man, but certainly also more fitted for 
their work in the social mill than if they had never known 
that kindly feminine influence. 

Lettice became especially fond of one of these minor 
queens of literary society, who received her friends on 
Sunday afternoon, and whose drawing-room was frequently 
attended by a dozen or a score of well- reputed men and 
women. Mrs. Hartley was an excellent hostess. She was 
not only careful, to begin with, about her own acquaintance, 
cultivating none but those whom she had heard well 
spoken of by competent judges, but she knew how to make 
a second choice amongst the chosen, bringing kindred 
spirits together with a happy, instinctive sense of their 
mutual suitabilities. In spite of her many amiable and 
agreeable qualities, however, it took Lettice a little time to 
believe that she should ever make a friend of Mrs. Hartley, 
whose habit of assorting and labelling her acquaintances 
in groups struck her at first as artificial and conventional. 
Lettice objected, for her own part, to be classified. 

She had been entreated so often by Clara to go to one 
of Mrs. Hartley’s afternoons that it was with some com- 
punction of heart that she prepared at last to fulfil her 
long delayed promise. She walked from Brook Green to 
Edwardes Square, about three o’clock one bright Sunday 
afternoon, in February, and found Clara waiting for her. 
Clara was looking very trim and smart in a new gown of 
inexpensive material, but the latest, and she surveyed 
Lettice in a comprehensive manner from top to toe, as if 
to ascertain whether a proper value had been attached to 
Mrs. Hartley’s invitation. 

“ You look very nice,” was her verdict. “ I am so glad 
that you have relieved your black at last, Lettice. There 
is no reason why you should not wear a little white or 
lavender.” 

And indeed this mitigation of her mourning weeds was 
becoming to Lettice, whose delicate bloom showed fresh 
and fair against the black and white of her new costume. 
She had pinned a little bunch of sweet violets into her 
jacket, and they harmonized excellently well with the 


70 


J^AMB AATD FAME, 


grave tranquillity of her face and the soberness of her 
dress. 

“ I don’t know why it is, but you remind me of a nun/* 
Clara said, glancing at her in some perplexity. “ The 
effect is quite charming, but it is nun-like too ” 

“ I am sure I don’t know why ; I never felt more worldly 
in my life,” said Lettice, laughing. “ Am I not fit for Mrs. 
Hartley’s drawing-room ? ” 

“ Fit ? You are lovely ; but not quite like anybody 
else. That is the best of it ; Mrs. Hartley will rave of you,” 
said Clara, as they set forth. And the words jarred a little 
on Lettice’s sensitive mind ; she thought that she should 
object to be raved about. 

They took an omnibus to Kensington High Street, and 
then they made their way to Campden Hill, where Mrs. 
Hartley’s house was situated. And as they went, Clara 
took the opportunity of explaining Mrs. Hartley’s position 
and claims to distinction. Mrs. Hartley was a widow, 
childless, rich, perfectly independent : she was very critical 
and very clever (said Mrs. Graham), but, oh, so kind- 
hearted ! And she was sure that Lettice would like her. 

Lettice meekly hoped that she should, although she had 
a guilty sense of wayward dislike to the woman in whose 
house, it appeared, she was to be exhibited. For some 
words of Graham’s lingered in her mind. “ Mrs. Hartley ? 
The lion-hunter? Oh ! so youds^ to be on view this after- 
noon, I understand.” Accordingly, it was with no very 
pleasant anticipation that Lettice entered the lion-hunter’s 
house on Campden Hill. 

A stout, little grey-haired lady in black, with a very ob- 
servant eye, came forward to greet the visitors. “ This is 
Miss Campion, I feel sure,” she said, putting out a podgy 
hand, laden with diamond rings. “ Dear Mrs. Graham, 
how kind of you to bring her. Come and sit by me. Miss 
Campion, and tell me all about yourself. I want to know 
how you first came to think of literature as a profession ? ” 

This was not the way in which people talked at Angleford. 
Lettice felt posed fora moment, and then a sense of humor 
came happily to her relief. 

“ I drifted into it, I am afraid,” she answered, com- 
posedly. 

“ Drifted ? No, I am sure you would never drift. You 
don’t know how interested I am, Miss Campion, in the 


NAME AND FAME, 


7 * 


development of the human mind, or you would not try to 
evade the question. Now, which interests you most, poetry 
or prose ? ” 

“ That depends upon my mood ; I am not sure that I am 
permanently interested in either,” Lettice said, quietly. 

Her hostess’ observant eye was upon her for a moment ; 
then Mrs. Hartley’s face expanded in a benignant smile. 

“ Ah, I see you are very clever,” she said. “ I ask the 
question — not from idle curiosity, because I have repre- 
sentatives of both in the room at the present moment. 
There is a poet, whom I mean to introduce you to by and 
by, if you will allow me ; and there is the very embodiment 
of prose close beside you, although I don’t believe that he 
writes any, and, like M. Jourdain, talks it without knowing 
that it is prose.” 

Lettice glanced involuntarily at the man beside her, and 
glanced again. Where had she seen his face before? He 
was a rather stout, blonde man, with an honest open coun- 
tenance that she liked, although it expressed good nature 
rather than intellectual force. 

“ Don’t you remember him ? ” said Mrs. Hartley, in her 
ear. “ He’s a cousin of mine : Brooke Dalton, whose 
uncle used to live at Angleford. He has been wanting to 
meet you very much ; he remembers you quite well, he 
tells me.” 

The color rose in Lettice’s face. 'She was feminine 
enough to feel that a connecting link between Mrs. Hart- 
ley and her dear old home changed her views of her hostess 
at once. She looked up and smiled. “ I remember Mr. 
Dalton too,” she said. 

“ What a sweet face ! ” Mrs. Hartley said to herself. 
“ Now if Brooke would only take it into his head to settle 
down ” 

And aloud sne added : ‘‘ Brooke, come and be introduced 
to Miss Campion. You used to know her at Angleford.” 

It seems a long lime since I saw you,” Mr. Dalton 
said, rather clumsily, as he took Lettice’s hand into a very 
cordial clasp. “It was that day in December when your 
brother had just got his scholarship at Trinity.” 

“ Oh, yes ; that day ! I remember it very well,” said 
Lettice, drawing a long breath, which was not exactly a 
sigh, although it sounded like one. “ I gave up being a 
child on that day, I believe 1 ” 


72 


NAME AND FAME, 


“ There have been mmy changes since then.” Brooke 
Dalton was not brilliant in conversation. 

“ You have heard of them all, I suppose ? Yes, my 
mother and I are in London now.” 

“You will allow me to call, I hope?” 

I.ettice had but time to signify her consent, when Mrs. 
Hartley seized on her again, but this time Lettice did not 
so much ol)ject to be cross-examined. She recognized the 
fact that Mrs. Hartley’s aim was kindly, and she submitted 
to be asked questions about her work and her prospects, 
and to answer them with a frankness that amazed herself. 

But in the very midst of the conversation she was con- 
scious of being much observed by two or three people in 
the room ; notably by Brooke Dalton, who had planted 
himself in a position from which he could look at her with- 
out attracting the other visitors’ remark ; and also by a 
tall man with a dark, melancholy face, deep-set eyes, and 
a i)eaked Vandyke beard, whose glances were more furtive 
than those of Dalton, but equally interested and intent. 
He was a handsome man, and Lettice found herself won- 
dering whether he were not “ somebody,” and somebody 
worth talking to, moreover ; for he was receiving, in a 
languid, half-indifferent manner, a great deal of homage 
from the women in the room. He seemed bored by it, and 
was turning away in relief from a lady who had just quoted 
half-a-dozen lines of Shelley for his especial behoof, when 
Mrs. Hartley, who had been discussing Feuerbach and the 
German materialists with Lettice, caught his eye, and 
beckoned him to her side. 

“ Mr. Walcott,” she said, “ I never heard that you were 
a materialist, and I don’t think it is very likely ; so you 
can condole with Miss Campion on having been condemned 
to translate five hundred pages of Feuerbach. Now, isn’t 
that terrible ? ” 

“ I don’t know Feuerbach,” said the poet, after he had 
bowed to Lettice, “ but it sounds warm and comfortable 
on a wintry day. Nevertheless, I do condole with her.” 

“ I am not sure that I need condolence,” said Lettice. 
“ The work was really very interesting, and one likes to 
know what any philosopher has to say for himself, whether 
one believes in his theories or not. I must say I have 
enjoyed reading Feuerbach, — though he is a German with a 
translatable name.” 


AJVD FAME. 


n 


This was a flippant speech, as Lettice acknowledged to 
herself; but, then, Mr. Walcott’s speech had been flippant 
to begin with, and she wanted to give as good as she got. 

You read German, then? ” said Walcott, sitting down 
in the chair that Mrs. Hartley had vacated, and looking at 
Lettice with interest, although he did not abandon the 
slight affectation of tone and manner that she had noted 
from the beginning of her talk with him. “ How nice that 
must be ! I often wish I knew something more than my 
schoolboy’s smattering of Greek, Latin, and French.” 

Lettice had read Mr. Walcott’s last volume of poems, 
which were just then exciting considerable interest in the 
literary world, and she could not help recalling one or two 
lyrics and sonnets from Uhland, Filicaja, and other Conti- 
nentals. As though divining her thoughts, Walcott went 
on quickly, with much more sincerity of tone : 

“ I do try now and then to put an idea that strikes me 
from German or Italian into English ; but think of my 
painful groping with a dictionary, before the cramped and 
crippled idea can reach my mind ! I am the translator 
most in need of condolence. Miss Campion ! ” 

“ Yet, even without going to other languages,” said 
Lettice, “ there is an unlimited field in our own, both for 
ideas and for expression — as well as a practically unlimited 
audience.” 

“ The artists and musicians say that their domains are 
absolutely unlimited — that the poet sings to those who 
happen to speak his language, whilst they discourse to the 
whole world and to all time. I suppose, in a sense, they 
are right.” 

He spoke listlessly, as if he did not care whether they 
were right or wrong. 

But Lettice’s eyes began to glow. 

“ Surely in a narrow sense ! They would hardly say 
that Handel or Beethoven speaks to a wider audience than 
Homer or Shakspeare, and certainly no musician or painter 
or sculptor can hope to delight mankind for as many cen- 
turies as a poet. And, then, to think what an idea can 
accomplish — what Greek ideas have done in England, for 
instance, or Roman ideas in France, or French ideas in 
nearly every country of Europe ! Could a tune make a re- 
volution, or a picture destroy a religion ? ” 

“ Perhaps, yes,” said Walcott, wishing to draw her out, 
“if the tunes or the pictures could be repeated often 


JVAME AND FAME. 


H 

enough, and brought before the eyes and ears of the mul- 
titude.” 

“ I do not think so. And, at any rate, that could not be 
done by way of systematic and comprehensive teaching, so 
that your comparison only suggests another superiority in 
literary expression. A poet can teach a whole art, or estab- 
lish a definite creed ; he can move the heart and mould 
the mind at the same time; but one can hardly imagine 
such an effect from the work of those who speak to us only 
tlirough the eye or ear.” 

By this time Alan Walcott was fairly interested. What 
Lettice said might be commonplace enough, but it did 
not strike him* so. It was her manner that pleased 
him, her quiet fervor and gentle insistance, which 
showed that she was accustomed to think for her- 
self, and suggested that she would have the honesty to say 
what she thought. And, of course, he applied to himself 
all that she said about poets in general, and was delighted 
by her warm championship of his special vocation. As 
they went on talking for another quarter of an hour he 
recognized, without framing the admission in words, that 
Miss Campion was an exceedingly well-read person, and 
tliat she knew many authors — even poets — with whom he 
had the slightest acquaintance. Most of the people whom he 
met talked idle nonsense to him, as though their main ob- 
ject was to pass the time, or else they aired a superficial 
knowledge of the uppermost thoughts and theories of the 
day, gleaned as a rule from the cheap primers and maga- 
zine articles in which a bustled age is content to study its 
science, art, economy, politics, and religion. But here 
was a woman who had been a voracious reader, who had 
gone to the fountain-head for her facts, and who yet spoke 
with the air of one who wanted to learn, rather than to 
display. 

“ We have had a very pleasant talk,” he said to her at 
last. “ I mean that I have found it very pleasant. I am 
going now to dine at my club, and shall spend my evening 
over a monologue which has suggested itself since I en- 
tered this room. As you know the Grahams I may hope 
to meet you again, there if not here. A talk with you. 
Miss Campion, is what the critics in thQ AcroJ>o/is might 
call very suggestive ! ” 

Again Lettice thought the manner and the speech 
affected, but there was an air of sincerity about the man 


^TAME AND FAME, 


75 


which seemed to be fighting down the affectation. She 
hardly knew whether she liked him or not, but she knew 
that he had interested her and made her talk — for which 
two things she half forgave him the affectation. 

“ I knew you two would get on together,” said Mrs. 
Hartley, who came up at the moment and drop})ed into 
Alan Walcott’s chair. “ I am not easily deceived in my 
friends, and I was sure you would have plenty to say to 
each other. I have been watching you, and I declare it 
was quite a case of conversation at first sight. Now, mind 
you come to me often. Miss Campion. I feel that I shall 
like you.” 

And the fat good-natured little woman nodded her grey 
head to emphasize the compliment. 

“ It is kind of you to say that,” said Lettice, warmly. 
“ I will certainly take you at your word.” 

“ My dear,” said Mrs. Hartley, when Alan Walcott had 
left them, “ he is a very nice and clever man — but, oh, so 
melancholy ! He makes me feel quite unhappy. I never 
saw him so animated as he was just now, and it must be 
thoroughly good for him to be drawn out in that way.” 

“ I suppose it is the natural mood of poets,” Lettice 
answered with a smile. “ It is an old joke against them.” 

“ Ah, but I think the race is changing its characteristics 
in these days, and going in for cheerfulness and comfort. 
There is Mr. Pemberton, for instance — how aggravatingly 
prosperous he looks ! Do you see how he beams with 
good nature on all the world ? I should say that he is a 
jovial man — and yet, you know, he has been down there, 
as they said of Dante.” 

“ Perhaps it goes by opposites. What I have read of 
Mr. Walcott’s poetry is rather light than sad — except one 
or two pieces in The Decade'' 

“ Poor man ! I think there is another cause for his 
melancholy. He lost his wife two or three years ago, and 
I have been told that she was a charming creature, and 
that her death upset him terribly. He has only just begun 
to go about again.” 

“ How very unfortunate ! ” said Lettice. “ And that 
makes it still more strange that his poems should be so 
slightly tinged with melancholy. He must live quite a 
double life. Most men would give expression to their per- 
sonal griefs, and publish them for everybody to read ; but 
he keeps them sacred. That is much more interesting.” 


76 


J\rAMJS AND FAME, 


“ I should think it is more difficult. It seems natural 
that a poet, being in grief, should write the poetry of grief.” 

“ Yes — no doubt it is more difficult.” 

And Lettice, on her way home and afterwards, found 
herself pondering on the problem of a man who, recently 
robbed of a well-beloved wife, wrote a thousand verses with- 
out a single reference to her. 

She took down his “ Measures and Monologues,” and 
read it through, to see what he had to say about women. 

There were a few cynical verses from Heine, and three 
bitter stanzas on the text from Balzac : — “ Vous nous pro- 
mettiez le bonheur, et finissiez par nous jeter dans une 
precipice ; ” but not one tender word applied to a woman 
throughout the book. It was certainly strange ; and Let- 
tice felt that her curiosity was natural and legitimate. 

Alan Walcott, in fact, became quite an interesting study. 
During the next few months Lettice had many opportuni- 
ties of arriving at a better knowledge of his character, and 
she amused herself by quietly pushing her inquiries into 
wnat was for her a comparatively new field of speculation. 
The outcome of the research was not very profitable. The 
more she saw of him the more he puzzled her. Qualities 
which appeared one day seemed to be entirely wanting 
when they next met. In some subtle manner she was 
aware that even his feelings and inclinations constantly 
varied ; at one time he did not conceal his craving for 
sympathy, at another he was frigid and almost repellent. 
Lettice still did not know whether she liked or disliked 
him. But she was now piqued as well as interested, and 
so it happened that Mr. Walcott began to occupy more of 
her thoughts than she was altogether willing to devote to 
him. 

So far, all their meetings were in public. They had 
never exchanged a word that the world might not hear. 
They saw each other at the Grahams' dinner-parties, at 
Mrs. Hartley’s Sunday afternoon “at homes,” and at one 
or two other houses. To meet a dozen times in a London 
season constitutes intimacy. Although they talked chiefly 
of books, sometimes of men and women, and never of 
themselves, Lettice began to feel that a confidential tone 
was creeping into their intercourse — that she criticized his 
poems with extraordinary freedom, and argued her opinions 
with him in a way that would certainly have staggered her 


^rAAfE AND FAME. 


11 


brother Sydney if he had heard her. But in all this 
friendly talk, the personal note had never once been struck. 
He told her nothing of his inner self, of his past life, or his 
dreams for the future. All that they said might have been 
said to each other on their first meeting in Mrs. Hartley’s 
drawing-room. It seemed as if some vague impalpable 
barrier had been erected between them, and Lettice puzzled 
herself from time to time to know how this barrier had 
been set up. 

Sometimes — she did not know why — she was disposed 
to associate it with the presence of Brooke Dalton. That 
gentleman continued to display his usual lack of brilliance 
in conversation, together with much good-heartedness, 
soundness of judgment, and thoughtfulness for others ; and 
in spite of his slowness of speech Lettice liked him very 
much. But why would he persist in establishing himself 
within earshot when Alan was talking to her? If they 
absolutely eluded him, he betrayed uneasiness, like that 
of a faithful dog who sees his beloved mistress in some 
danger. He did not often interrupt the conversation. 
He sat silent for the most part, unconsciously throwing a 
wet blanket over both speakers, and sometimes sending 
Walcott away in a state of almost irrepressible irritation. 
And yet he seemed to be on good terms with Alan. They 
spoke to each other as men who had been acquaintances, 
if not friends, for a good number of years ; and he never 
made an allusion to Alan, in his absence, which could in 
the least be deemed disparaging. And yet Lettice felt 
that she was watched, and that there was some mysterious 
anxiety in Dalton’s mind. 

Having no companions (for Clara was too busy with her 
house and her children to be considered a companion for 
the day-time), Lettice sometimes went for solitary expe- 
ditions to various “ sights ” of London, and, as usual in 
such expeditions, had never once met anybody she knew. 
She had gone rather early one summer morning to West- 
minster Abbey, and was walking slowly through the 
dim cloistered shades, enjoying the coolness and the quiet- 
ness, when she came full upon Alan Walcott, who seemed 
to be doing likewise. 

They both started : indeed, they both changed color. 
For the first time they met outside a drawing-room ; and 
the change in their environment seemed to warrant some 


78 


J\rAM£ AND FAME, 


change in their relation to one another. After the first 
greeting, and a short significant pause — for what can be 
more significant than silence between two people who have 
reached that stage of sensitiveness to each other’s moods 
when every word or movement seems like self-revelation ? 
— Alan spoke. 

“ You love this place — as I do ; I know you love it.” 

“ I have never been here before,” said Lettice, letting 
her eyes stray dreamily over the grey stones at her feet. 

“ No, or I should have seen you. I am often here. And 
I see you so seldom ” 

“So seldom?” said Lettice in some natural surprise. 
“ Why, I thought we met rather often ? ” 

“ Under the world’s eye,” said Alan, but in so low a 
voice that she was not sure whether he meant her to hear 
or not. However, they both smiled; and he went on 
rather hurriedly, “ It is the place of all others where I 
should expect to meet you. We think so much alike ” 

“Do we?” said Lettice doubtfully. “But we differ 
very much.” 

“ Not in essentials. Don’t say that you think so,” he 
said, in a tone that was almost passionately earnest. “ I 
can’t tell you how much it is to me to feel that I have a 
friend who understands — who sympathizes — who would 
sympathize, I am sure, if she knew all ” 

He broke off suddenly, and the emotion in his voice so 
far touched Lettice that she remained silent, with droop- 
ing head and lowered eyes. 

“ Yes,” he went on, “ you owe me your sympathy now. 
You have given me so much that you must give me more. 
I have a right to it.” 

“ Mr. Walcott ! ” said Lettice, raising her head quickly, 
“ you can have no xight ” 

“ No right to sympathy from a friend ? Well, perhaps 
not,” he answered bitterly. “ I thought that, although 
you were a woman, you could allow me the claim I make. 
It is srpall enough, God knows ! Miss Campion, forgive 
me for speaking so roughly. I ask most earnestly for your 
friendship and your sympathy ; will you not give me 
these?” 

Lettice moved onward towards the door. “ Do you 
think that we ought to discuss our personal concerns in 
such a place as this?” she asked, evading the question in 
a thoroughly feminine manner. 


J\rAM£ AND FAME. 


79 


“ Why not ? But if not here, then in another place. 
By the bye ” — with a sudden change of manner, as they 
stepped into the light of day — “ I have a rare book that I 
want to show you. Will you let me bring it to your house 
to-morrow morning? I think that you will be interested. 
May I bring it ? ” 

“ Yes,” said Lettice mechanically. The change from 
fierce earnestness to this subdued conventionality of tone 
bewildered her a little. 

“I will come at twelve, if that hour will suit you? ” 

“ It will suit me very well.” 

And then he raised his hat and left her. Lettice, her 
pulses throbbing strangely, took her way back to Hammer- 
smith. As she grew calmer, she wondered what had 
agitated her so much ; it must have been something in his 
look or in his tone, for every effort to assure herself by a 
repetition of his words that they were mere commonplaces 
of cojiversation set her heart beating more tumultuously 
than ever. She walked all ’the way from Westminster to 
Brook Green without once reflecting that she might save 
herself that fatigue by hailing a passing omnibus. • 


CHAPTER VIII. 

AT THE OLIGARCHY CLUB. 

Sydney Campion had done a year’s hard and remunera- 
tive work since he paid his last visit to Angleford, and the 
result more than answered his expectations. 

When the courts were sitting he was fully absorbed in 
his briefs ; but now and again he took life easily enough 
— at any rate, so far as the law was concerned. In the 
autumn it had been his custom to live abroad for a month 
or two ; at Christmas and Easter he invariably found his 
way to his club in the afternoon, and finished the evening 
over a rubber of whist. 

It was a rare occasion when Sydney was able, in the 
middle of term, to leave his chambers between three and 
four o’clock, and stroll in a leisurely way along the Em- 
bankment, peacefully smoking a cigar. The chance came 
to him one sultry day in June. There was no case for him 


8o 


/^TAME AND FAME. 


to master, nothing proceeding in which he was specially 
interested, and he did not feel disposed to sit down and 
improvise a case for himself, as he used to do in his earlier 
days. He was minded to be idle ; and we may accom- 
pany him in his westward walk along the river side to 
Hungerford Bridge, and up the Avenue to Pall Mall. 

On the steps of the Oligarchy Club he found his old 
friend, Pynsent, just starting for the House. The time 
was one of great excitement for those who had not lost 
their interest in the politics of the day. The Irish Land 
Bill was in Committee, and the Conservatives had strenu- 
ously opposed it, fighting, as they knew, a losing battle, 
yet not without consolations. This very week they had 
run the Government so close that the transfer of three 
votes would have put them in a minofity ; and Sir John 
Pynsent, who was always a sanguine man, had convinced 
himself that the Liberal party was on the point of break- 
ing up. 

“ They are sure to go to pieces,” he said to Campion ; 

and it would be a strange thing if they did not. What 
Heneage has done already some other Whig with a con- 
science will do again, and more effectually. You will see 
we shall be back in office before the year is out. No Min- 
istry and no majority could bear the strain which the Old 
Man is putting on his followers — it is simply impossible. 
The worth and birth of the country are sick of this veiled 
communism that they call justice to Ireland — sick of de- 
mocratic sycophancy — deadly sick of the Old Man. You 
mark my words, dear boy : there will be a great revolt 
against him before many months have passed. I see it 
working. I find it in the House, in the clubs, in the 
drawing-rooms ; and I don’t speak merely as my wishes 
lead me.” 

“ No doubt you are right as to London ; but how about 
the country? ” 

“ The provinces waver more than the metropolis, I ad- 
mit ; but I don’t despair of seeing a majority even in the 
English boroughs. Ah, Campion, I never see you with- 
out saying to myself, ‘There goes the man who lost us 
Dormer.’ You would have won that election, I am cer- 
tain.” 

“ Well,” sa'id Sydney, “ you know why I could not fight 

The will, the money, everything was ready : but ” 

True, I forgot. I beg your pardon ! ” 


NAME AND FAME, 


8i 


Not at all ! But I will fight for you some day — as 
soon as you like. Bear that in mind, Pynsent ! ” 

“ To be sure I will, my dear fellow. We must have you 
in the House. I have often said so.” 

And the energetic baronet hurried away, whilst Sydney 
entered the Club, and made straight for the smoking-room. 
Here he found others just as eager to predict the downfall 
of the Government as Sir John Pynsent had been ; but he 
was not in the mood to listen to a number of young men 
all of the same mind, all of doubtful intellectual calibre, 
and all sure to say what he had heard a dozen times 
already. So he passed on to the billiard-room, and find- 
ing that a pool was just beginning, took a ball and played. 

That served to pass the time until six o’clock, when he 
went upstairs and read the evening papers for an hour ; 
and at seven he had his dinner and a bottle of wine. Mean- 
while he had met two or three friends, with whom he kept 
up a lively conversation on the events of the day, sea- 
soned by many a pungent joke, and fatal (for the moment) 
to many a reputation. It is a habit fostered by club life 
— as, no doubt, it is fostered in the life of the drawing- 
room, for neither sex is exempt — to sacrifice the repute of 
one’s absent acquaintance with a light heart, notin malice, 
but more as a parrot bites the finger that feeds it, in sport, 
or even in affection. If we backbite our friends, we give 
them free permission to backbite us, or we know that they 
do it, which amounts to pretty much the same thing. The 
biting may not be very severe, and, as a rule, it leaves no 
scars ; but, of course, there are exceptions to the rule. 

The secret history of almost every man or woman who 
has mixed at all in polite society is sure to be known by 
some one or other in the clubs and drawing-rooms. If 
there is anything to your discredit in your past life, any- 
thing which you would blot out if you could with rivers of 
repentance or expiation, you may be pretty sure that at 
some time, when you might least expect it, this thing has 
been, or will be, the subject of discourse and dissection 
amongst your friends. It may not be told in an injurious 
or exaggerated manner, and it may not travel far; but 
none the less do you walk on treacherous shale, which 
may give way at any moment under your feet. The art of 
living, if you are afraid of the passing of your secret from the 
few who "know to the many who welcome a new scandal, is 

6 


82 


/^AME AND FAME, 


to go on walking with the light and confident step of youth, 
never so much as quailing in your own mind at the 
thought that the ground may crumble beneath you — that 
you may go home some fine day, or to your club, or to 
Lady Jane’s five o’clock tea, and be confronted by the 
grinning skeleton on whom you had so carefully turned 
your keys and shot your bolts. 

No doubt there are men and women so refined and 
kindly in their nature that they have absolutely no appetite 
for scandal — never speak it, or listen to it, or remember 
what they have overheard. Sydney and his friends were 
troubled by no such qualms, and, if either of them had 
been, he would not have been so ill-mannered as to spoil 
sport for the rest. 

After dinner they had gone upstairs to the members’ 
smoking room, in a comfortable corner of which they were 
lazily continuing their conversation. It turned by chance 
on a certain barrister of Sydney’s inn, a Mr. Barrington 
Baynes, whom one of the party not incorrectly described 
as “that beautiful, bumptious, and briefless barrister, B. 
B.” 

“ He gives himself great airs,” said Captain Williams, 
a swaggering, supercilious man, for whom Sydney had no 
affection, and who was not one of Sydney’s admirers. “ To 
hear him talk one would imagine he was a high authority 
on every subject under the sun, but I suspect he has very 
little to go upon. Has he ever held a brief, Campion ? ” 

“ I never heard of it, if he did. One of those poor 
devils who take to journalism, and usually end by going to 
the dogs. You will find his name on the covers of maga- 
zines, and I fancy he does something in the reviewing 
way.” 

It was an unfortunate speech for Sydney to make, and 
Captain Williams did not fail to seize his oppportunity of 
giving the sharp-tongued lawyer — who perhaps knew better 
how to thrust than to parry in such encounters — a whole- 
some snub. 

Fortune favored him. The current number of The 
Decade was lying on the table beside him. He took it up 
in a casual sort of way, and glanced at the list of contents. 

“ By the bye. Campion,” he said, “ you are not a mar- 
ried man, are you ? I see magazine articles now and then 
signed Lettice Campion ; no relation, I suppose,” 


NAME AND FAME, 


83 


“ That is my sister,” Sydney answered, quietly enough. 
But it was plain that the hit had told ; and he was vexed 
with himself for being so snobbish as to deserve a sneer 
from a man like Williams. 

“ I have had the pleasure of meeting Miss Campion two 
or three times lately at Mrs. Hartley’s, in Kensington,” 
said another of the quartette. This was none other than 
Brooke Dalton, whom Sydney always liked. He spoke in 
a confidential undertone, with the kindly intention of cover* 
ing Sydney’s embarrassment. “ Mrs. Hartley is a cousin 
of mine ; and, though I say it, she brings some very nice 
people together sometimes. By the way, have you ever 
seen a man of the name of Walcott — Alan Walcott : a man 
who writes poetry, and so forth? ” 

“ I know him by name, that is all. I have heard people 
say he is one of the best poets we have ; but I don’t pre- 
tend to understand our latter-day bards.” 

“ You never met him? ” 

“ No.” 

“Well, then,” said Mr. Dalton, who, though a justice of 
the peace, and the oldest of the four, could give them all 
points and beat them as a retailer of gossip ; “ well, then, that 
leaves me free to tell you as curious a little history as any 
I know. But mind, you fellows,” he continued, as the 
others pricked up their ears and prepared to listen, “ this 
is not a story for repetition, and I pledge you to silence 
before I say another word.” 

“ Honor bright ! ” said Charles Milton ; and the captain 
nodded his head. 

“ The facts are these : Five or six years ago, I knew a 
little of Alan Walcott. I had made his acquaintance in a 
fortuitous way, and he once did me a good turn by coming 
forward as a witness in the police court.” 

“ Confession is good for the soul,” Milton interjected. 

“ Well, I was summoned for thrashing a cabman, and I 
should certainly have been fined if Walcott had not con- 
trived to put the matter in its proper light. For a month 
or two we saw a good deal of each other, and I rather 
liked him. He was frank and open in his ways, and though 
not a well-to-do man, I never observed anything about him 
that was mean or unhandsome. I did not know that he 
was married at first, but gradually I put two and two to- 
gether, and found that he came out now and again to enjoy 


84 


JVAME AND FAME, 


a snatch of personal freedom, which he could not always 
make sure of at home. 

“ Once I saw his wife, and only once. She was a strik- 
ingly handsome Frenchwoman, of that bold and flaunting 
type which generally puts an Englishman on his guard 
— all paint and powder and cosmetics ; you know the 
style ! ’’ 

“ Not exactly a poetic ideal,” said Sydney. 

“ That is just what I thought at the time ; and she seems 
to have been still less so in character. When I saw her 
she was terribly excited about some trifle or other — treated 
Walcott like a dog, without the slightest consideration for 
his feelings or mine, stood over him with a knife, and ended 
with a fit of shrieking hysterics.” 

“ Drink or jealousy ? ” Captain Williams asked. 

Perhaps a little of both. Walcott told me afterwards 
that that was his daily and nightly experience, and that he 
was making up his mind to end it. I never knew what he 
meant by that, but it was impressed upon my memory by 
the cool sort of way in which he said it, and a quiet look 
in his eyes which evidently meant mischief. About a 
fortnight later they went abroad, rather in a hurry ; and 
for some time I heard nothing more of them. Then I went 
to Aix-les-Bains, and came on the scene just after a fright- 
ful row. It seems that a French admirer of hers had fol- 
lowed her to Aix, and attacked Walcott, and even struck 
him in the hotel gardens. The proprietor and the police 
had to interfere, and I came across Walcott just as he was 
looking for some one to act as second. There had been a 
challenge, and all that sort of thing ; and, un-English as it 
seems, I thought Walcott perfectly right, and acted as his 
friend throughout the affair. It was in no way a remark- 
able duel : the French fellow was shot in the arm and got 
away to Switzerland, and we managed to keep it dark. 
Walcott was not hurt, and went back to his hotel.” 

“ What did the woman do ? ” asked Williams, curiously. 

“ That’s the odd part of it. Husband and wife seem to 
have made it up, for in a day or two they went on to Culoz, 
had luncheon there, and went out for a walk together. 
From that walk, Mrs. Alan Walcott did not return. Now 
comes the mystery : what happened in the course of that 
walk near Culoz ? All that is known is that the landlady 
saw Walcott returning by himself two or three hours later, 


JVAME AND FAME. 


85 


and that when she questioned him he replied that madame 
had taken her departure. What do you think of that for a 
bit of suggested melodrama ? ” • 

“It lacks finish,” said Milton. 

“ I can’t see where the poetry comes in,” observed the 
captain. 

“ It certainly looked black for Walcott,” Sydney re- 
marked. “ I suppose there was a regular hue and cry — a 
search for the body, and all that kind of thing? ” 

“So far as I know, there was nothing of the sort. No- 
body seems to have had any suspicion at the time. The 
peasants at Culoz seemed to have talked about it a little, 
and some weeks afterwards the English people at Aix-les- 
Bains got hold of it, and a friend of mine tried to extract 
information from the landlady. But he was unsuccessful : 
the landlady could not positively affirm that there was any- 
thing wrong. And — perhaps there was not,” Mr. Dalton 
concluded, with a burst of Christian charity which was 
creditable to him, considering how strong were his objec- 
tions to Walcott’s friendship with Miss Campion. 

The captain leaned his head back, sent a pillar of smoke 
up to the ceiling, and laughed aloud. 

“ There is no question about it,” said Milton, “ that Wal- 
cott got out of it cheaply. I would not be in his shoes for 
any money, even now.” 

“ Is this business widely known ? ” Sydney asked. “ It 
is strange that I never heard anything about it.” 

He was thinking that the acquaintance of Mr. Alan Wal- 
cott could not in any case be a desirable thing for Miss 
Lettice Campion. From the manner in which Dalton had 
introduced the subject he felt pretty sure that the attention 
paid by this man to his sister had been noticed, and that 
his friend was actuated by a sense of duty in giving him 
warning as to the facts within his knowledge. 

“ I don’t wonder you never heard of it,” said Dalton. 
“ I am not aware of anyone in England who ever did, ex- 
cept myself. I have not mentioned it before, because I 
am not sure that it is fair to Walcott to do so. But I know 
you men will not repeat what I have been telling you.” 

“ Not a word,” said Captain Williams and Charles Milton, 
in a breath. 

Yet in less than a week from that time the whole story 
made its appearance in one of the baser personal journals, 


86 


JSTAME AND FAME. 


and people were discussing who the “ well-known poet " 
was, and whether “ the buried secret ” would presently 
come to light again. 

And Alan Walcott saw the paragraph, and felt that he 
had not yet quite done with his past, and wondered at the 
dispensation of Providence which permitted the writers of 
such paragraphs to live and thrive. 

But a good deal was to happen before that paragraph 
was printed ; and in the meantime Dalton and Campion 
went off to look for partners in a rubber, without suppos- 
ing for a moment that they had delivered a stab in the 
back to one who had never done an injury to either of 
them. 


CHAPTER IX. 

LETTICE RECEIVES A VISITOR. 

The day following that on which Sydney Campion paid 
his afternoon visit to his club in Pall Mall was one of con- 
siderable importance to his sister Lettice. 

She was an early riser, and generally contrived to write 
half-a-dozen pages of easy translation or straightforward 
fiction before ten o’clock. That was the hour when she 
was due in her mother’s room, to help her in dressing, and 
to settle her comfortably in her arm-chair, with her Bible and 
spectacles at her side, and a newspaper or magazine wait- 
ing its turn after the lessons for the day had been read. 
Mrs. Campion was growing very feeble, both in mind and 
in body, but she got through her waking hours with a fair 
amount of satisfaction, thanks to the attention which was 
paid to all her wants and wishes. Lettice did not suffer 
anything to interfere with the regular routine which she 
had marked out for her mother’s comfort. She and her 
maid Milly between them kept the old lady in peace of 
mind and constant good humor ; and if Mrs. Campion still 
believed that Sydney was their great benefactor, and that 
it behoved her to comport herself with dignity and grace 
as the mother of a Lord Chancellor, Lettice did not attempt 
the hopeless task of undeceiving her. 

On this particular day there had been a poor pretence of 
morning work. She had arranged her papers, the ink and 


NAME AND FAME. 


87 


pen were ready to her hand, and a few lines were actually 
written. But her ideas were all in confusion, and eluded 
her when she tried to fix them. She could not settle to 
anything, and instead of writing she found herself drawing 
figures on the blotting-pad. ^he knew that of old as a bad 
symptom, and gave up tr^g to be industrious. The 
French window stood open, and the balmy June morning 
tempted her out into the garden. She picked some flowers 
for her vases, and pinned a rosebud on the collar of her 
soft grey dress. It was a simple, straight-flowing dress, of 
the make which suits every woman best, tall or short, hand- 
some or plain, depending for its beauty on shape and 
material alone, without any superfluous trimmings ; for 
Lettice had a man’s knack of getting her dressmaker to 
obey orders, and would have scorned to wear and pay for, 
as a matter of course, whatever trappings might be sent 
home to her in lieu of what she wanted. 

Clearly there were special reasons for her perturbation of 
niind, and if any other woman had been at her side, and 
watched her in and out of the house for ten minutes at a 
time, she would have had no difficulty in divining that 
Lettice expected a visitor. She would probably go further 
than this, and draw some confident conclusion as to the 
kind of welcome likely to be accorded to the visitor ; but 
here, at any rate, the criticism would have been premature. 
Lettice did expect a visitor — Mr. Alan Walcott to wit ; 
but she had not the slightest notion as to how she should 
receive him, or whether she would prefer that he should 
come or stay away. 

Her friendship with the poet had grown steadily since 
their first meeting, and they were now on tolerably familiar 
terms. His manner had made it impossible for her to 
doubt that he liked to talk and listen to her, that he sought 
her company, and even considered himself entitled to her 
sympathy. But when on the previous day he had gone so 
far as to assert his title in words, he had done so with 
what seemed to her remarkable audacity. And, although 
she had given him permission to come to her house this 
morning, she was thinking now whether it would not have 
been better if she had suggested the transfer of the volume 
of which he spoke at Mrs. Hartley’s on the following Sun- 
day, or if she had made her hint still broader by praising 
the cheapness and despatch of the Parcels Delivery Com- 
pany. 


88 


JVAME AND FAME. 


She had done nothing of this kind. She had been neither 
rude nor effusive, for it was not in her nature to be either. 
He was coming some time after twelve,” and in fact, 
punctually as the clock struck twelve, Mr. Alan Walcott 
was at the door. 

Milly announced him demurely. She observed him care- 
fully, however, as she admitted him into Lattice’s room, 
and studied his card with interest while carrying it to Miss 
Campion. No man so young and handsome had ever 
called at Maple Cottage in her time before. 

Lattice had been sitting with her mother, and she came 
down to her study and received her visitor with a frank 
smile. 

“ It is really very kind of you,” she said, taking the in- 
nocent book which he held out as a sort of warrant for his 
intrusion, “ to be at all this trouble. And this is a splendid 
copy, it reminds me of the volumes my father used to be 
so fond of. I will take great care of it. How long did 
you say I might keep it ? ” 

“ Till you have read it, at any rate. Or till I ask you 
for it again — which I don’t think I shall. You say that 
you used to see volumes like this on your father’s book- 
shelves. I should not wonder if you had seen this very 
book there. It is a strange coincidence that I should have 
had it in my possession for some time, and yet never 
noticed until this morning, when I took it down to bring to 
you, that it had your name on the fly-leaf Look ! ” 

He opened the book and held the fly-leaf against the 
window. The name had been rubbed out with a wet fin- 
ger, after the manner of second-hand booksellers, but the 
“ Lawrence Campion ” was still easily legible. Lettice 
could not restrain a little cry of delight. 

“Yes, that is his dear handwriting, I know it so well ! 
And this is his book-plate, too, and his motto — ‘ Vive ut 
vivas in vitam aeternam.’ Oh, where did you get the book ? 
But I suppose my father’s library was scattered all over the 
country.” 

“No doubt it was. I have a few — perhaps twenty — 
with the same plate. My uncle gave me them. I — a — 
Miss Campion — I came this morning — ” 

Apparently he did not quite know why he came, or at 
any rate he did not find it easy to say. Lettice spoke 
again in order to relieve his embarrassment, which she did 
not understand. 


JSTAME AND DAME. 


89 


“ It is so strange that I should have one of his books in 
my hand again. You can imagine what a grief it was to 
him when he had to let them go.” 

“ I am so glad to have restored to you something that 
was your father’s. I want you to give me a great pleasure, 
Miss Campion. These books — there are not more than 
forty outside — I want you to have them. They are yours, 
you know, because they were his, and he ought never to 
have been deprived of them.” 

“ I could not take them, indeed, Mr. Walcott. You are 
most kind to think of it, but I could not !” 

“ Why ? ” 

“That is hardly a reasonable question,” she said, with a 
quiet little laugh. “ How could I ? ” 

“ I see very well how you could, but why should you 
not? It will be a good deed, and there is no good deed 
without a sacrifice.” 

“ And you want to sacrifice these books, which are so 
valuable ! ” 

“ No, it is no sacrifice to me, as I could easily prove to 
you. Believe that it pleases me, and sacrifice your own 
feelings by taking them.” 

“ I don’t see why you should ask me. It is too great a 
present to make, and — oh, dear me, I am afraid I do not 
know how to say what I mean ! But if you will give me 
this one book, with my father’s name in it, I will take it 
from you, and thank you very much for it.” 

“ I shall not be satisfied if I may not send the rest. 
Miss Campion, I came to say ” 

Again he stammered and broke down. Lettice, who 
thought that he had already delivered himself of his mental 
burden, was a little startled now, especially as he got up 
and stood by her chair at the window. 

“ What a lovely little garden ! ” he said. “ Why, you 
are quite in the country here. What delightful roses ! I 
— I want to say something else. Miss Campion ! ” 

“ Yes,” said Lettice, faintly, and doing her best to feel 
indifferent. 

“ We have not known each other long, but it seems to 
me that we know each other well — at any rate that I know 
you well. Before I met you I had never made the 
acquaintance of a woman who at the same time com- 
manded my respect, called my mind into full play, and 


90 


MME AND FAME. 


aroused my sympathy. These last few months have been 
the happiest of my life, because I have been lifted above 
my old level, and have known for the first time what the 
world might yet be to me. There is something more I 
want to say to you. I think you know that I have been 
married — that my wife is — is no more. You may or may 
not have heard that miserable story, of my folly, and ” 

“ Oh, no ! ” cried Lettice, impulsively. “ It is true that 
Mrs. Hartley told me of the great trouble which fell upon 
you in the loss of which you speak.” 

“ The great trouble — yes ! That is how Mrs. Hartley 
would put it. And the Grahams, have they told you 
nothing ? ” 

“ Nothing more.” 

A look as of relief passed across his face, followed by a 
spasm of pain ; and he stood gazing wearily through the 
window. 

“ Perhaps they do not know, for I have never spoken of 
it to anyone. But I want to speak ; I want to get rid of 
some of the wretched burden, and an irresistible impulse 
has brought me here to you. I am utterly selfish ; it is like 
taking your money, or your manuscripts, or your flowers, 
or anything that you value, to come in this way and almost 
insist on telling you my sordid story. It is altogether unjusti- 
fiable — it is a mad presumption which I cannot account for, 
except by saynig that a blind instinct made me think that 
you alone, of all the people in this world, could help me if 
you would ! ” 

Lettice was deeply moved by various conflicting 
emotions ; but there was no hesitation in the sympathy 
which went out to meet this strange appeal. Even her 
reason would probably have justified him in his unconven- 
tional behavior ; but it was sympathy, and not reason, 
which prompted her to welcome and encourage his confi- 
dence. 

“ If I can help you — if it helps you to tell me anything, 
please speak.” 

“ I knew I was not mistaken ! ” he said, with kindling 
eyes, as he sat down in a low chair opposite to her. “ I 
will not be long — I will not tell you all ; that would be 
useless, and needlessly painful. I married in haste, after a 
week’s acquaintance, the daughter of a French refugee, who 
came to London in 1870, and earned a living by teaching 


//AME AND FAME, 


91 


his language to the poorest class of pupils. Don’t ask me 
why I married her. No doubt I thought it was for love. 
She was handsome, and even charming in her way, and for 
some months I tried to think I was happy. Then, gradu- 
ally, she let me wake from my fool’s paradise. I found — • 
you will despise me for a dupe ! — that I was not the first 
man she had pretended to love. Nay, it was to me that 
she pretended — the other feeling was probably far more of 
a reality. Before the year was out she had renewed her 
intimacy with my rival — a compatriot of her own. You 
will suppose that we parted at once when things came to 
this pass j but for some time I had only suspicion to go 
upon. I knew that she was often away from home, and 
that she had even been to places of amusement in this man’s 
company ; but when I spoke to her she either lulled my 
uneasiness or pretended to be outraged by my jealousy. 
Soon there was no bond of respect left between us \ but as 
a last chance, I resolved to break up our little home in 
England, and go abroad. I could no longer endure my 
life with her. She had ceased to be a wife in any worthy 
sense of the word, and was now my worst enemy, an object 
of loathing rather than of love. Still, I remember that I 
had a gleam of hope when I took^ier on the Continent, 
thinking it just possible that by removing her from her old 
associations, I might win her back to a sense of duty. I 
would have borne her frivolity ; I would have endured to 
be bound for life to a doll or a log, if only she could have 
been outwardly faithful. 

“ Well, to make a long story short, we had not been abroad 
more than six weeks when this man I have told you about 
made his appearance on the scene. She must have w'ritten 
to him and asked him to come, at the very moment when 
she was cheating me with a show of reviving affection ; 
and I own that the meeting of these two one day in the 
hotel gardens at Aix-les-Bains drove me into a fit of tem- 
porary madness. We quarrelled; I sent him a challenge, 
and we fought. He was not much hurt, and I escaped un- 
touched. The man disappeared, and I have never seen 
him from that day to this, but I have some reason to think 
that he is dead.” 

He paused for a moment or two ; and Lettice could not 
refrain from uttering the words, “ Your wife ? ” in a tone 
of painful interest. 


g2 


NAME AND FAME. 


‘•My wife?” he repeated slowly. “Ah yes, my wife. 
Well, after a stormy scene with her, she became quiet and 
civil. She even seemed anxious to please me, and to set 
my mind at rest. But she was merely hatching her last 
plot against me, and I was as great a fool and dupe at this 
moment as I had ever been before.” 

And then, with averted face, he told the story of his last 
interview with her on the hills beyond Culoz. “ I will not 
repeat anything she said,” he went on — it was his sole re- 
servation — “ although some of her sentences are burned 
into my brain for ever. I suppose because they were so 
true.” 

“ Oh, no ! ” Lettice murmured involuntarily, and look- 
ing at him with tear-dimmed eyes. She was intensely in- 
terested in his story, and Alan Walcott felt assured by her 
face that the sympathy he longed for was not withheld. 

“ My wound was soon healed,” he said when the details 
of that terrible scene were told ; “ but I was not in a hurry 
to come back to England. When I did come back, I 
avoided as much as possible the few people who knew me ; 
and I have never to this moment spoken of my deliverance, 
which I suppose they talk of as my loss.” 

“ They think,” sai^ Lettice, slowly, for she was puzzled 
in her mind, and did not know what to say, “ that you are 
a widower? ” 

“ And what am I ? ” he cried, walking up and down the 
room in a restless way. “ Am I not a widower ? Has she 
not died completely out of my life ? I shah never see her 
again — she is dead and buried, and I am free? Ah, do 
not look at me so doubtfully, do not take back the sym- 
pathy which you promised me ! Are you going to turn 
me away, hungry and thirsty for kindness, because you 
imagine that my need is greater than you thought it five 
minutes ago ? I will not believe you are so cruel ! ” 

“We need not analyze my feelings, Mr. Walcott. I 
could not do that myself until I have had time to think. 
But — is it right to leave other people under the conviction 
that your wife is actually dead, when you know that in all 
probability she is not ? ” 

“ I never said she was dead ! I never suggested or acted 
a lie. May not a man keep silence about his own most 
sacred affairs ? ” 

“ Perhaps he may,” said Lettice. “ It is not for me to 
judge you — and at any rate, you have told me ! ” 


NAME AND FAME. 


93 


She stood up and looked at him with her fearless grey 
eyes, whilst his own anxiously scanned her face. 

“ I am very, very sorry for you. If I can do anything 
to help you, I will. You must not doubt my sympathy, 
and I shall never withdraw my promise. But just now I 
cannot think what it would be best to do or say. Let me 
have time to think.” 

She held out her hand, and he took it, seeing that she 
wanted him to go. 

“ Good-bye ! ” he said. “ God bless you for being what 
you are. It has done me good to talk. When we meet 
again — unless you write and give me your commands — I 
promise to do whatever you may tell me.” 

And with that, he went away. 


CHAPTER X. 

THE POET SPEAKS. 

As soon as her visitor was gone, Lettice fell into a deep 
study. She had two things especially to think about, and 
she began by wondering what Mrs. Hartley would say if she 
knew that Alan Walcott’s wife was alive, and by repeating 
what he had said to her that morning : that a man was not 
bound to tell his private affairs to the world. No ! she 
told herself, it was impossible for any man of self-respect 
to wear his heart on his sleeve, to assume beforehand that 
people would mistake his position, and to ticket himself as 
a deserted husband, lest forward girls should waste their 
wiles upon him. 

The thought was odious ; and yet she had suggested it 
to him ! Had she not done more than that ? Had she 
not implied that he had done a dishonorable thing in con- 
cealing what he was in no way bound to reveal ? What 
would he think of her, or impute to her, for raising such a 
point at the very moment when he was displaying his 
confidence in her, and appealing for her sympathy? She 
blushed with shame at the idea. 

He was already completely justified in her mind, for she 
did not go so far as to put the case which a third person 
might have put in her own interest. If Alan had been 


94 


AND FAME. 


unfair or inconsiderate to anyone, it was surely to Lettice 
herself. He had spoken familiarly to her, sought her com- 
pany, confessed his admiration in a more eloquent language 
than that of words, and asked for a return of sentiment by 
those subtle appeals winch seem to enter the heart through 
none of the ordinary and ticketed senses. It is true that 
he had not produced in her mind the distinct impression 
that she was anything more to him than an agreeable talker 
and listener in his conversational moods ; but that was 
due to her natural modesty rather than to his self-restraint. 
He had been impatient, at times, of her slowness to 
respond, and it was only when he saw whither this im- 
patience was leading him that he resolved to tell her all 
that she ought to know. It was not his delay, however, 
that constituted the injustice of his conduct, but the fact 
of his appealing to her in any way for the response which 
he had no right to ask. 

Lettice was just as incapable of thinking that she had 
been unjustly treated as she was of believing that Alan 
Walcott loved her. Thus she was spared the humiliation 
that might have fallen on her if she had understood that 
his visit was partly intended to guard her against the danger 
of giving her love before it had been asked. 

Having tried and acquitted her friend, and having further 
made up her mind that she would write him a letter to 
assure him of his acquittal, she summoned herself before 
the court of her conscience ; and this was a very different 
case from the one which had been so easily decided. Then 
the presumption was all in favor of the accused ; now it 
was all against her. The guilt was as good as admitted 
beforehand, for as soon as Lettice began to examine and 
cross-examine herself, she became painfully aware of her 
transgressions. 

What was this weight which oppressed her, and stifled 
her, and covered her with shame ? It was not merely sor- 
row for the misfortunes of her friend. That would not 
have made her ashamed, for she knew well that compas- 
sion was a woman’s privilege, for which she has no reason 
to blush. Something had befallen her this very morning 
which had caused her to blush, and it was the first time in 
all her life that Lettice’s cheek had grown red for anything 
she had done, or thought, or said, or listened to, in respect 
of any man whatever. Putting her father and brother 


kame and fame. 


95 


on one side, no man had had the power, for very few 
had had the opportunity, to quicken the pulses in her 
veins as they were quickened now. She had not lived 
to be six and twenty years old without knowing what 
love between a man and woman really meant, but slie 
had never appropriated to herself the good things which 
she saw others enjoying. It was not for want of being 
invited to the feast, for several of her father’s curates had 
been ready to grace their frugal boards by her presence, 
and to crown her with the fillets of their dignity and self- 
esteem. The prospect held up to her by these worthy 
men had not allured her in any way; she had not loved 
their wine and oil, and thus she had remained rich, accord- 
ing to the promise of the seer, with the bread and salt of 
her own imaginings. 

It would be wrong to suppose that Lettice had no strong 
passions, because she had never loved, or even thought 
that she loved. The woman of cultivated mind is often 
the woman of deepest feeling; her mental strength implies 
her calmness, and the calm surface indicates the greatest 
depth. It is in the restless hearts which beat themselves 
against the shores of the vast ocean of womanhood that 
passion is so quick to display itself, so vehement in its 
shallow force, so broken in its rapid ebb. The real strength 
of humanity lies deep below the surface ; but a weak woman 
often mistakes for strength her irresistible craving for 
happiness and satisfaction. It is precisely for this reason 
that a liberal education and a full mind are even more 
essential to the welfare of a woman than they are to the 
welfare of a man. The world has left its women, with this 
irresistible craving in their hearts, dependent, solitary, 
exposed to attack, and unarmed for defence ; and as a 
punishment it has been stung almost to death by the 
scorpions which its cruelty generates. But a woman who 
has been thoroughly educated, a woman of strong mind 
and gentle heart, is not dependent for happiness on the 
caprice of others, or on the abandonment of half the privi- 
leges of her sex, but draws from an inexhaustible well to 
which she has constant access. 

So Lettice, with the passions of her kind, and the crav- 
ings of her sex, had been as happy as the chequered 
circumsiances of her outer life would permit ; but now for 


g6 


NAME AND FAME. 


the first time her peace of mind was disturbed, and she felt 
the heaving of the awakened sea beneath. 

AVhy had lier heart grown cold when she heard that 
Alan Walcott’s wife was still alive ? Why had her thought 
been so bitter when she told herself that she had no right 
to give the man her sympathy?- Why had the light and 
warmth and color of life departed as soon as she knew 
that the woman whom he had married, however unworthy 
she might be, was the only one who could claim his fidelity ? 
Alas, the answer to her questions was only too apparent. 
The pain which it cost her to awake from her brief sum- 
mer’s dream was her first admonition that she had dreamed 
at all. Not until she had lost the right to rejoice in his 
admiration and respond to his love, did she comprehend 
how much these things meant to her, and how far they had 
been allowed to go. 

The anguish of a first love which cannot be cherished or 
requited is infinitely more grievous when a woman is 
approaching the age of thirty than it is at seventeen or 
twenty. The recoil is greater and the elasticity is less. 
But if Lettice suffered severely from the sudden blow which 
had fallen upon her, she still had the consolation of know- 
ing that she could suffer in private, and that she had not 
betrayed the weakness of her heart — least of all to him who 
had tried to rnake her weak. 

In the course of the evening she sat down and wrote to 
him — partly because he had asked her to write, and partly 
in order that she might say without delay what seemed 
necessary to be said. 

*^Dear Mr. Walcott, — After you .were gone this morning I 
thought a great deal about all that you said to me, and as you asked 
me for my opinion, and I promised to give it, perhaps I had better tell 
you what I think at once. I cannot see that you are, or have been, 
under any moral compulsion to repeat the painful events of your past 
life, and I am sorry if I implied that I thought you were. Of course, 
you may yourself hold that these facts impose a certain duty upon you, 
or you may desire tha»your position should be known. In that case 
you will do what you think right, and no one else can properly decide 
for you. 

“ I was indeed grieved by your story. I wish it was in my power to 
lessen your pain; but, as it is not, I can only ask you to believe that if 
I could do so, I would. 

“ You will be hard at work, like myself (as you told me), during the 
next few months. Is not hard work, after all, the very best of ano- 


J\rAM£ AND FAME, 


97 


dynes ? I have found it so in the past, and I trust you have done so 
too, and will continue to do so. 

“ Believe me, dear Mr. Walcott, yours very sincerely, 

“Lettice Campion.” 

She hesitated for some time as to whether she had said 
too much, or too little, or whether what she had said was 
expressed in the right way. But in the end she sent it as 
it was written. 

Then, if she had been a thoroughly sensible and philo- 
sophical young woman, she would have forced herself to do 
some hard work, by way of applying the anodyne of which 
she had spoken. But that was too much to expect from 
her in the circumstances. What she actually did was to go 
to bed early and cry herself to sleep. 

She had not considered whether her letter required, or 
was likely to receive an answer, and she was therefore a 
little surprised when the postman brought her one on the 
afternoon of the following day. Not without trepidation, 
she took it to her room and read it. 

Dear Miss Campion ” — so the letter began — I thank 
you very much for your kindness. I have learned to find 
so much meaning in your words that I think I can tell 
better than anyone else how to interpret the spirit from the 
letter of what you say. So, when you tell me that no one 
can decide for me what it is my duty to do, I understand 
that, if you were in my position at this moment, you would 
rather desire that it should be known. Henceforth I desire 
it, and I shall tell Mrs. Hartley and Mrs. Graham as much 
as is necessary the next time I see them. This will be 
equivalent to telling the world — will it not ? 

“ Two other things I understand from your letter. First, 
that you do not wish to meet me so often in future ; and, 
second, that though you know my pain would be diminished 
by the frank expression of your sympathy, and though you 
might find it in your heart to be frankly sympathetic, yet 
you do not think it would be right, and you do not mean 
to be actively beneficent. Am I wrong ? If I am, you must 
forgive me ; but, if I am not, I cannot accept your decision 
without entering my protest. 

“ Think, my dear friend — you will allow me that word ! 
— to what you condemn me if you take your stand upon 

7 


98 


/\rAM£: AND FAME, 


the extreme dictates of conventionality. You cannot know 
what it would mean to me if you were to say, ‘ He is a 
married man, and we had better not meet so frequently in 
future.’ To you, that would be no loss whatever. To me, 
it would be the loss of happiness, of consolation, of intel- 
lectual life. Listen and have pity upon me ! I could not 
say it to your face, but I will say^ it now, though you may 
think it an unpardonable crime. You have become so 
necessary' to me that I cannot contemplate existence with- 
out you. Have you not seen it already — or, if you have 
not, can you doubt when you look back on the past six 
months — that respect has grown into affection, and affection 
into love ? Yes, I love you, Lettice ! — in my own heart I 
call you Lettice every hour of the day — and T cannot live 
any longer without telling you of my love. 

“ When I began this letter I did not mean to tell you — 
at any rate not to-day. Think of the condition of my mind 
when I am driven by such a sudden impulse — think, and 
make allowance for me ! 

“ I am not sure what I expected when I resolved to 
make my sad story known to you. Perhaps, in my mad- 
ness, I thought, ‘ There is a right and a wrong above the 
right and wrong of society’s judgments; and she is on the 
higher levels of humanity, and will take pity on my mis- 
fortunes.’ I only say, perhaps I thought this. I don’t 
know what I thought. But I knew I could not ask you to 
be my wife, and I determined that you should know why I 
could not. 

“ Oh, how I hate that woman ! I believe that she is 
dead. I tell myself every day that she is dead, and that 
there is nothing to prevent me from throwing myself at 
your feet, and praying you to redeem me from misery. Is 
not my belief enough to produce conviction in you ? No 
— you will not believe it ; and, perhaps, if you did, you 
would not consent to redeem me. No ! I must drag my 
lengthening chain until I die ! I must live in pain and 
disgust, bound to a corpse, covered with a leprosy, because 
the angel whose mission it is to save me will not come 
down from her heaven and touch me with her finger. 

“ You shall not see these words, Lettice — my dear Let- 
tice ! They are the offspring of a disordered brain. I 
meant to write you such a calm and humble message, tell- 
ing you that your counsel was wise — that I would follow it 


AND FAME. 


99 


— that I knew I had your sympathy, and that I reverenced 
you as a saint. If I go on writing what I do not mean to 
send, it is only because the freedom of my words has 
brought me peace and comfort, and because it is good that 
I should allow myself to write the truth, though I am not 
allowed to write it to you ! 

“ Not allowed to write the truth to you, Lettice.^ That, 
surely, is a blasphemy ! If I may not write the truth to 
you, then I may not know you — I may not worship you — 
I may not give my soul into your keeping. 

“ I will test it. My letter shall go. You will not answer 
it — you will only sit still, and either hate or love me ; and 
one day I shall know which it has been. “ Alan.” 

Whilst Lettice read this wild and incoherent letter, she 
sank on her knees by her bedside, unable in any other 
attitude to bear the strain which it put upon her feelings. 

“ How dare he? ” she murmured, at the first outbreak 
of his passionate complaint ; but, as she went on reading, 
the glow of pity melted her woman’s heart, and only once 
• more she protested, in words, against the audacious can- 
dor of her lover. 

“ How could he? ” 

And as she finished, and her head was bowed upon her 
hands, and upon the letter which lay betwee*n them, her 
lips sought out the words which he had written last of all, 
as though they would carry a message of forgiveness and 
consolation to the spirit which hovered beneath it. 


CHAPTER XI. 

SYDNEY GIVES ADVICE. 

The day after Sydney Campion had heard Brooke Dalton’s 
story of the disappearance of Alan Walcott’s wife had been 
a very busy one for him. He had tried to get away from his 
work at an early hour, in order that he might pay one of 
his rare visits to Maple Cottage, and combine with his 
inquiries into the welfare of his mother certain necessary 
cautions to his sister Lettice. It was indispensable that 


lOO 


AND FAME. 


she should be made to understand what sort of man this 
precious poet was known to be, and how impossible it had 
become that a sister of his should continue to treat him as 
a friend. 

Why, the fellow might be — probably was — a murderer ! 
And, if not that, at all events there was such a mystery 
surrounding him, and such an indelible stain upon his 
character, that he, Sydney Campion, could not suffer her 
to continue that most objectionable acquaintance. 

But his duties conspired with his dinner to prevent the 
visit from being made before the evening, and it was nearly 
eight o’clock when he arrived at Hammersmith. He had 
dined with a friend in Holborn, and had taken a Metropo- 
litan train at Farringdon Street, though, as a rule, he held 
himself aloof from the poison-traps of London, as he was 
pleased to call the underground railway, and travelled 
mostly in the two-wheeled gondolas which so lightly float 
on the surface of the stream above. 

As he was about to leave the station, his eye encountered 
a face and figure which attracted him, and made him almost 
involuntarily come to a standstill. It was Milly Harring- 
ton, Lettice’s maid, who^ having posted her mistress’ letter 
to Alan Walcott, had turned her listless steps in this direc- 
tion. 

Milly’s life in London had proved something of a disap- 
pointment to her. The cottage on Brook Green was even 
quieter than the Rectory at Angleford, where she had at 
least the companionship of other servants, and a large ac- 
quaintance in the village. Lettice was a kind and consid- 
erate mistress, but a careful one : she did not let the young 
country-bred girl go out after dark, and exercised an un- 
usual amount of supervision over her doings. Of late, these 
restrictions had begun to gall Milly, for she contrasted her 
lot with that of servants in neighboring houses, and felt 
that Miss Lettice was a tyrant compared with the easy- 
going mistresses of whom she heard. Certainly Miss Lettice 
gave good wages, and was always gentle in manner and 
ready to sympathize when the girl had bad news of her old 
grandmother’s health ; but she did not allow Milly as much 
liberty as London servants are accustomed to enjoy, and 
Milly, growing learned in her rights by continued compa- 
rison, fretted against the restraints imposed upon her. 

She might have “ kept company ” with the milkman, with 
the policeman, with one of the porters at the station : for 


NAME AND FAME. 


loi 


these, one and all, laid their hearts and fortunes at her 
feet ; but Milly rejected their overtures with scorn. Her 
own prettiness of form and feature had been more than 
ever impressed upon her by the offers which she refused ; 
and she was determined, as she phrased it, “ not to throw 
herself away.” 

Her fancy that “ Mr. Sydney ” admired her had not been 
a mistaken one. Sydney had always been susceptible to 
the charms of a pretty face ; and Nature had preordained 
a certain measure of excuse for any man who felt impelled 
to look twice at Milly, or even to speak to her on a flimsy 
pretext. And Milly was on Nature’s side, for she did not 
resent being looked at or spoken to, although there was 
more innocence and ignorance of evil on her side than men 
were likely to give her credit for. Therefore Sydney had 
for some time been on speaking terms with her, over and 
above what might have been natural in an occasional visitor 
to the Rectory and Maple Cottage. He saw and meant 
no harm to her in his admiration, and had no idea at present 
that his occasional smile or idle jesting compliment made 
the girl’s cheeks burn, her heart beat fast, made her nights 
restless and her days long. He took it for granted that 
gratified vanity alone made her receive his attentions with 
pleasure. His gifts — for he could be lavish when he liked 
— were all, he thought, that attracted her. She was a 
woman, and could, no doubt, play her own game and take 
care of herself. She had her weapons, as other women 
had. Sydney’s opinion of women was, on the whole, a low 
one ; and he had a supreme contempt for all women of the 
lower class — a contempt which causes a man to look on 
them only as toys — instruments for his pleasure — to be 
used and cast aside. He believed that they systematically 
preyed on men, and made profit out of their weakness. 
That Milly was at a disadvantage with him, because she 
was weak and young and unprotected, scarcely entered his 
head. He would have said that she had the best of it. 
She was pretty and young, and could make him pay for it 
if he did her any harm. She was one of a class — a class of 
harpies, in his opinion — and he did not attribute any par- 
ticular individuality to her at all. 

But Milly was a very real and individual woman, with a 
nature in which the wild spark of passion might some day 
be roused with disastrous results. It is unsafe to play with 


102 


J\rAME AND FAME, 


the emotions of a person who is simply labelled, often 
mistakenly and insiifificiently, in your mind as belonging to 
a class, and possessing the characteristics of that class. 
There is always the chance that some old strain of tendency, 
some freak of heredity, may develop in the way which is 
most of all dangerous to you and to your career. For you 
cannot play with a woman’s physical nature without touch- 
ing, how remotely soever, her spiritual constitution as well ; 
and, as Browning assures us, it is indeed “ an awkward 
^ thing to play with souls, and matter enough to save one’s 
own.” 

Sydney Campion, however, concerned himself very little 
with his own soul, or the soul of anybody else. He went 
up to Milly and greeted her with a smile that brought the 
color to her face. 

“ Well, ]\Iilly,” he said, “ are you taking your walks 
abroad to-night ? Is your mistress pretty well ? I was 
just going to Maple Cottage.” ' 

“ Yes, sir, mistress is pretty well ; but I don’t think Miss 
Lettice is,” said Milly, falling back into her old way of 
speaking of the rector’s daughter. “ She mentioned that 
she was going to bed early. You had better let me go 
back first and open the door for you.” 

“ Perhaps it would be best. Not well, eh ? What is the 
matter? ” 

“ I don’t know, but I think Miss Campion has a bad 
headache. I am sure she has been crying a great deal.” 
Milly said this with some hesitation. 

“ I am sorry to hear that.” 

“ I am afraid Mr. Walcott brought her bad news in the 
morning, for she has not been herself at all since he left.” 

‘‘ Do you say that Mr. Walcott was there this morn- 
ing?” 

Sydney spoke in alow tone, but with considerable eager- 
ness, so that the girl knew she had not thrown her shaft in 
vain. 

“ Milly, this concerns me very much. I must have a 
little talk with you, but we cannot well manage it here. 
See ! there is no one in the waiting-room ; will you kindly 
come with me for a minute or two ? It is for your mis- 
tress’ good that I should know all about this. Come ! ” 

So they went into the dreary room together, and they sat 
down in a corner behind the door, which by this time was 


NAME AND FAME, 


103 


almost dark. There Sydney questioned her about Alan 
Walcott, with a view to learning all that she might happen 
to know about him. Milly required little prompting, for 
she was quite ready to do all that he bade her, and she told 
him at least one piece of news which he was not prepared 
to hear. 

Five minutes would have sufficed for all that Milly had 
to say ; but the same story may be very long or very short 
according to the circumstances in which it is told. Half- 
an-hour was not sufficient to-night : at any rate, it took 
these two more than half-an-hour to finish what they had 
to say. And even then it was found that further elucida- 
tions would be necessary in the future, and an appointment 
was made for another meeting. But the talk had turned 
on Milly herself, and Milly’s hopes and prospects, before 
that short half-hour had sped. 

“ Good-night, Milly,” said Sydney, as they left the sta- 
tion. “ You are a dear little girl to tell me so much. Per- 
haps you had better not say to your mistress that you saw 
me to-night. I shall call to-morrow afternoon. Good-night, 
dear.” 

He kissed her lightly, in a shadowy corner of the plat- 
form, before he turned away ; and thought rather admir- 
ingly for a minute or two of the half-frightened, half-ador- 
ing eyes that were riveted upon his face. “ Poor little 
fool ! ” he said to himself, as he signalled a cab. For even 
in that one short interview he had mastered the fact that 
Milly was rather fool than knave. 

The girl went home with a light heart, believing that she 
had done a service to the mistress whom she really loved, 
and shyly, timorously joyous at the thought that she had 
met at last with an admirer — a lover, perhaps ! — such as 
her heart desired. Of course. Miss Lettice would be angry 
if she knew ; but there was nothing wrong in Mr. Sydney’s 
admiration, said Milly, lifting high her little round white 
chin ; and if he told her to keep silence she was bound to 
hold her tongue. 

This was a mean thing that Sydney had done, and he 
was not so hardened as to have done it without a blush. 
Yet so admirably does our veneer of civilization conceal 
the knots and flaws beneath it that he went to sleep in the 
genuine belief that he had saved his sister from a terrible 
danger, and the name of Campion from the degradation 
which threatened it. 


104 


ATAME AND FAME. 


On the next day he reached Maple Cottage between four 
and five o’clock. 

‘‘ How is your mistress ? ” he said to Milly. 

She had opened the door and let him in with a vivid 
blush and smile, which made him for a moment, and in the 
broad light of day, feel somewhat ashamed of himself. 

“ Oh, sir, she is no better. She has locked herself in, 
and I heard her sobbing, fit to break her heart,” said Milly, 
in real concern for her mistress’ untold grief. 

“ Let her know that I am here. I will go to Mrs. Cam- 
pion’s room.” 

“ Well, mother ! ” he said, in the hearty, jovial voice in 
which he knew that she liked best to be accosted, “ here is 
your absentee boy again. How are you by this time ? ” 

“ Not very bright to-day, Sydney,” said his mother. “ I 
never am very bright now-a-days. But what are you doing, 
my dear? Are you getting on well ? Have they ” 

“ No, mother, they have not made me Lord Chancellor 
yet. AVe must wait a while for that. But I must not com- 
plain ; I have plenty of work, and my name is in the papers 
every day, and I have applied for silk, and — have you 
found your spectacles yet, mother ? ” 

Details of his life and work were, as he knew, absolutely 
unmeaning to Mrs. Campion. 

“ Oh, the rogue ! He always teased me about my spee- 
ches, ” said Mrs. Campion, vaguely appealing to an unseen 
audience. “ It is a remarkable thing, Sydney, but I put 
them down half an hour ago, and now I cannot find them 
anywhere.” 

“ Well, now, that is strange, Mrs. Campion ; but not 
very unusual. If I remember right, you had lost your 
spectacles when I was here last ; and as I happened to 
pass a good shop this morning, it occurred to me that you 
would not object to another pair of pebbles. So here they 
are ; and I have bought you something to test them with.” 

He produced a cabinet portrait of himself, such as the 
stationers were beginning to hang on the line in their shop 
windows. The fact marked a distinct advance in his con- 
quest of popularity ; and Sydney was not mistaken in sup- 
posing that the old lady would appreciate this portrait of 
her handsome and distinguished son. So, with her spec- 
tacles and her picture, Mrs. Campion was happ}-. 

When Sydney’s knock came to the door, Lettice was 
still crouching by her bedside over the letter which had 


NAME AND FAME. 


105 


reached her an hour before. She sprang up in nervous 
agitation, not having recognized the knock, and began to 
bathe her face and brush her hair. She was relieved when 
Milly came and told her who the caller was ; but even 
Sydney’s visit at that moment was a misfortune. She was 
inclined to send him an excuse, and not come down ; but 
in the end she made up her mind to see him. 

“ My dear child,” Sydney said, kissing her on the cheek, 
“how ill you look ! Is anything the matter? ” 

“ No, nothing. Don’t take any notice of me,” Lettice 
said, with a significant look at her mother. 

They conversed for a time on indifferent matters, and 
then Sydney asked her to show him the garden. It was 
evident that he wanted to speak to her privately, so she 
took him into her study ; and there, without any beating 
about the bush, he began to discharge his mind of its 
burden. 

“ I want to talk to you seriously, Lettice, and on what 
I’m afraid will be a painful subject ; but it is my manifest 
duty to do so, as I think you will admit before I go. You 
are, I believe, on friendly terms — tolerably familiar terms 
— with Mr. Walcott? ” 

This was in true forensic style ; but of course Sydney 
could not have made a greater mistake than by entering 
solemnly, yet abruptly, on so delicate a matter. Lettice 
was in arms at once. 

“ Stay a moment, Sydney. You said this was to be a 
painful subject to me, and then you mention the name of 
Mr. Walcott. I do not understand.” 

“ Well ! ” said Sydney, somewhat disconcerted ; “ I don’t 
know what made me conclude that it would be painful. I 
did not mean to say that. I am very glad it is not so.” 

He stopped to cough, then looked out of the window, 
and softly whistled to himself. Lettice, meanwhile, cast 
about hastily in her mind for the possible bearing of what 
her brother might have to say. She was about to take 
advantage of his blunder, and decline to hear anything fur- 
ther ; but for more than one reason which immediately oc- 
curred to -her, she thought that it would be better to let him 
speak. 

“ I do not think you could have any ground for supposing 
that such a subject would be specially painful to me ; but 
never mind that. What were you going to say ? ” 


io6 


A^AM£ AND FAME, 


Now it was Sydney’s turn to be up in arms, for he felt 
sure that Lettice was acting a part. 

“ What I know for a fact,’' he said, “ is that you have 
seen a good deal of Mr. Walcott during the past six months, 
and that people have gone so far as to remark on your — on 
his manifest preference for your company. I want to say 
that there are grave reasons why this should not be per- 
mitted to go on.” 

Lettice bit her lip sharply, but said nothing. 

“ Do you know,” Sydney continued, becoming solemn 
again as he prepared to hurl his thunderbolts, “ that Mr. 
AValcott is a married man ? ” 

“ Whether I know it or not, I do not acknowledge your 
right to ask me the question.” 

“ I ask it by the right of a brother. Do you know that 
if he is not a married man, he is something infinitely worse ? 
That the last time his wife was seen in his company, they 
went on a lonely walk together, and he came back again 
without her ? ” 

“ How do you know this ? ” Lettice asked him faintly. 
He set down her agitation to the wrong cause, and thought 
that his design was succeeding. 

“ I know it from the man who was most intimately con- 
nected with Walcott at the time. And I heard it at my 
club — in the course of the same conversation in which your 
name was mentioned. Think what that means to me ! 
However, it may not have gone too far if we are careful to 
avoid this man in future. He does not visit here, of 
course ? ” 

“ He has been here.” 

“ You surely don’t correspond? ” 

“ We have corresponded.” 

“ Good heavens ! it is worse than I thought But you 
will promise me not to continue the acquaintance ? ” 

“No, I cannot promise that ! ” 

“ Not after all I have told you of him ? ” 

“ You have told me nothing to Mr. Walcott’s discredit. 
I have answered your questions because^ you are, as you 
reminded me, my brother. Does it not strike you that 
you have rather exceeded your privilege ? ” 

Sydney was amazed at her quiet indifference. 

“ I really cannot understand you, Lettice. Do you mean 


J\rAME AND FAME, 


lo^ 


to say that you will maintain your friendship with this man, 

although you know him to be a ” 

“ Well ? ” 

At any rate, a possible murderer ? ” 

“ The important point,” said Lettice coldly, “ seems to 
be what Mr. Walcott is actually, not what he is possibly. 
Your ‘ possible ’ is a matter of opinion, and I am very dis- 
tinctly of opinion that Mr. Walcott is an innocent and 
honorable man.” 

“ If you believe him innocent, then you believe that his 
wife is living ? ” 

I know nothing about his wife. That is a question 
which does not concern me.” 

“ Your obstinacy passes my comprehension.” When Syd- 
ney said this, he rose from the chair in which he had been 
sitting and stood on the hearth-rug before the grate, with 
his hands behind him and his handsome brows knitted in a 
very unmistakable frown. It was in a lower and more 
regretful voice that he continued, after a few minutes’ 
silence : “ I must say that the independent line you have 
been taking for some time past is not very pleasing to me. 
You seem to have a perfect indifference to our name and 
standing in the world. You like to fly in the face of con- 
vention, to ” 

“Oh, Sydney, why should we quarrel?” said Lettice, 
sadly. Hitherto she had been standing by the window, 
but she now came up to him and looked entreatingly into 
his face. “ Indeed, I will do all that I can to satisfy you. 
I am not careless about your prospects and standing in the 
world ; indeed, I am not. But they could not be injured 
by the fact that I am earning my own living as an author. 
I am sure they could not ! ” 

“ You say that you will do all you can to satisfy me,” 
said Sydney, who was not much mollified by her tender- 
ness. “ Will you give up the acquaintance of that man ? ” 
“ I am not certain that I shall ever see Mr. Walcott 
again ; but if you ask me whether I will promise to insult 
him if I do see him, or to cut him because he has been 
accused of dishonorable acts, then I certainly say. No ! ” 

“ How you harp upon his honor ! The honor of a 
married man who has introduced himself to you under a 
false name ! ” 

“ What do you mean ? ” said Lettice, starting and 
coloring. “ Are there any more charges against him ? ” 


io8 NJMH: AND FAME. 

“ You seem to be so well prepared to defend him that 
perhaps you will not be surprised to hear that his name is 
not Walcott at all, but Bundlecombe, and that his mother 
kept a small sweet-stuff shop, or something of that kind, at 
Thorley. Bundlecombe ! No wonder he was ashamed of 
it !” 

This shaft told better than either of the others. Lettice 
was fairly taken aback. The last story did not sound as if 
it had been invented, and Sydney had evidently been 
making inquiries. Moreover, there flashed across her 
mind the remembrance of the book which Alan Walcott 
had given her — only yesterday morning. How long ago it 
seemed already ! Alan Bundlecombe ! What did the 
name signify, and why should any man care to change the 
name that he was born with ? She recollected Mrs. Bun- 
dlecombe very well — the old woman who came and took her 
first twenty pounds of savings ; the widow of the bookseller 
who had bought part of her father’s library. If he was 
her son, he might not have much to be proud of, but why 
need he have changed his name ? 

Decidedly this was a blow to her. She had no defence 
ready, and Sydney saw that she was uncomfortable. 

“ VVell,” he said, “ I must not keep you any longer. I 
suppose, even now” — with a smile — “you will not give 
me your promise ; but you will think over what I have told 
you, and I dare say it will all come right.” 

Her eyes were full of wistful yearning as she put her 
hand on his shoulder and kissed him. 

“ You believe that I mean to do right, don’t you, 
Sydney ? ” she asked. 

He laughed a little. “ We all mean to do right, my 
dear. But we don’t all go the same way to work, I sup- 
pose. Yes, yes ; I believe you mean well ; but do, for 
heaven’s sake, try to act with common-sense. Then, as I 
said, everything will come right in the end.” 

He went back to his mother’s room, and Lettice stood 
for some minutes looking out of the window, and sighing 
for the weariness and disillusion which hung like a cloud 
upon her life. 

“ All will come right ? ” she murmured, re-echoing 
Sydney’s words with another meaning. “ No. Trouble, 
and sorrow, and pain may be lived down and forgotten \ 
but without sincerity nothing can come right ! ” 


BOOK III. 


AMBITION. 

“ I count life just a stuff 
To try the soul’s strength on, educe the man, 

Who keeps one end in view makes all things serve.” 

Robert Browning. ^ 









NAME AND FAME, 


III 


CHAPTER XII. 

ALAN WALCOTT. 

Alan Walcott knew perfectly well that he had done a 
mad, if not an unaccountable thing in writing his letter to 
Miss Campion. He knew it, that is to say, after the letter 
was gone, for when he was writing it, and his heart was 
breaking through the bonds of common-sense which gene- 
rally restrained him, he did not feel the difficulty of account- 
ing either for his emotions or for his action. The wild 
words, as he wrote them, had for him not only the impress 
of paramount truth, but also the sanction of his convictions 
and impulse at the moment. No stronger excuse has been 
forthcoming for heroic deeds which have shaken the world 
and lived in history. 

Who amongst us all, when young and ardent, with the 
fire of generosity and imagination in the soul, has not 
written at least one such letter, casting reserve and pru- 
dence to the winds, and placing the writer absolutely at 
the mercy of the man or woman who received it ? 

This man was a poet by nature and by cultivation ; but 
what is the culture of a poet save the fostering of a dis- 
tempered imagination ? I do not mean the culture of a 
prize poet, or a poet on a newspaper staff, or a gentleman 
who writes verses for society, or a professor of poetry, or 
an authority who knows the history and laws of prosody in 
every tongue, and can play the bard or the critic with 
equal facility. Alan Walcott had never ceased to work in 
distemper, because his nature was distempered to begin 
with, and his taste had not been modified to suit the con- 
ventional canons of his critics. Therefore it was not much 
to be wondered at if his prose poem to the woman he 
loved was a distempered composition. 

The exaltation of the mood in which he had betrayed 
himself to Lettice was followed by a mood of terrible 
depression, and almost before it would have been possible 


II2 


NAME AND FAME, 


for an answer to reach him, even if she had sat down and 
written to him without an hour’s delay, he began to assure 
himself that she intended to treat him with silent contempt 
—that his folly had cost him not only her sympathy but 
her consideration, and that there was no hope left for him. 

He had indeed told her that he did not expect a reply; 
but now he tortured himself with the belief that silence on 
her part could have only one explanation. Either she 
pitied him, and would write to prevent his despair, or she 
was indignant, and would tell him so, or else she held him 
in such contempt that she would not trouble herself to take 
the slightest notice of his effusion. He craved for her 
indignation now as he had craved for her sympathy before ; 
but he could not endure her indifference. 

A man of five-and-thirty whose youth has been spent 
amongst the prodigal sons and daughters of the world’s 
great family, who has wasted his moral patrimony, and 
served masters and mistresses whom he despised, is not 
easily brought to believe that he can be happy again in the 
love of a pure woman. He has lost confidence in his own 
romantic feelings, and in his power to satisfy the higher 
needs of a woman’s delicate and exacting heart. Usually, 
as was once the case with Walcott, he is a cynic and a pro- 
fessed despiser of women, affecting to judge them all by 
the few whom he has met, in spite of the fact that he has 
put himself in the way of knowing only the weakest and 
giddiest of the sex. But when such a man, gradually 
and with difficulty, has found a pearl among women, 
gentle and true, intellectual yet tenderly human, with 
whom his instinct tells him he might spend the rest of his. 
life in honor and peace, he is ready in the truest sense to 
go and sell all that he has in order to secure the prize. 
Nothing has any further value for him in comparison with 
her, and all the roots of his nature lay firm hold upon her. 
Alas for this man if his mature love is given in vain, or if, 
like Alan Walcott, he is debarred from happiness by self- 
imposed fetters which no effort can shake off! 

For four-and-twenty hours he struggled with his misery. 
Then, to his indescribable joy, there came a message from 
Lettice. 

It was very short, and it brought him bad news ; but at 
any rate it proved that she took an interest in his welfare, 
and made him comparatively happy. 


NAME AND FAME, 


I13 


I think you should hear ” — so it began, without any 
introductory phrase — ‘ that the story you told me of what 
happened at Aix-les-Bains is known to men in this couniiy 
who cannot be )"our friends, since they relate it in their own 
fashion at their clubs, and add their own ill-natured com- 
ments. Perhaps if you are forewarned you will be fore- 
armed. 

“ Lettice Campion.” 

Not a word as to his letter ; but he was not much 
troubled on this score. That she had written to him at all, 
and written evidently because she felt some concern for his 
safety, was enough to console him at the moment. 

When he began to consider the contents of her note it 
disturbed him more than a little. He had not imagined 
that his secret, such as it was, had passed into the keep- 
ing of any other man, still less that it had become club-talk 
in London. He .saw at once what evil construction might 
be put upon it by malicious gossip-mongers, and he knew 
that henceforth he was face to face with a danger which he 
could do little or nothing to avert. 

What should he attempt in his defence ? How should 
he use the weapon which Lettice had put into his hand by 
forewarning him? One reasonable idea suggested itself, 
and this was that he should tell the true story to those who 
knew him best, in order that they might at any rate have 
the power to meet inventions and exaggerations by his own 
version of the facts. He busied himself during the next 
few days in this melancholy task, calling at the house of 
his friends, and making the best pretext he could for intro- 
ducing his chapter of autobiography. 

He called on the Grahams, amongst others, and was 
astonished to find that they knew the story already. 

“ I have told the facts to one or two,” he said, “ for the 
reason that I have just mentioned to you, but I think they 
understood tliat it would do me no good to talk about it, 
except in contradiction of unfriendly versions. How did 
you hear it ? ” 

Graham took out of his pocket a copy of The Gadabout 
and said, 

“ Pm afraid you have made enemies, Walcott, and if you 
have not seen this precious concoction it would be no 


JVAM£: AND FAME, 


1 14 

kindness to you to conceal it. Here— you will see at a 
glance how much they have embellished it.” 

Walcott took the paper, and read as follows : — 

“ It is probable that before long the public may be star- 
tled by a judicial inquiry into the truth of a story which has 
been told with much circumstantiality concerning the 
remarkable disappearance of the wife of a well-known poet 
some three or four years ago.” 

Then came the details, without any mention of persons 
or places, and the paragraph concluded in this fashion. 
“ It is not certain how the matter will come into court, but 
rumor states that there is another lady in the case, that 
the buried secret came to light in a most dramatic way, 
and that evidence is forthcoming from very unexpected 
quarters.” 

The victim of this sorry piece of scandal gazed at the 
pai)er in a state of stupefaction. 

Of course,” said Graham, “ it is not worth wdiile to 
notice that rag. Half of what it says is clearly a down- 
right invention. If only you could get hold of the writer 
and thrash him, it might do some good ; but these liars 
are very hard to catch. As to the ‘ other lady,’ there is 
nothing in that, is there ? ” 

Both Graham and his wife looked anxiously at Walcott. 
They knew of his attentions to Lettice, and were jealous 
of him on that account ; and they had been discussing with 
each other the possibility of their friend’s name being 
dragged into a scandal. 

Walcott was livid with rage. 

“ The cur ! ” he cried ; “ the lying hound ! He has en- 
tirely fabricated the beginning and the end of this para- 
graph. There is no ground whatever for saying that a case 
may come into court. There is no ‘ lady in the case ’ at 
all. He has simply put on that tag to make his scrap of 
gossip worth another half-crown. Is it not abominable, 
Graham ? ” 

“ It is something more than abominable. To my mind 
this sort of thing is one of the worst scandals of the pre- 
sent day. But I felt sure there was nothing in it, and the 
few who guess that it refers to you will dravv the same con- 
clusion. Don’t think any more about it ! ” 

“ A lie sticks when it is well told,” said Walcott, gloom- 
ily. “There are plenty of men who would rather believe 
it than the uninteresting truth.” 


NAME AND FAME, 


IIS 

But the Grahams, relieved on the point that mainly con- 
cerned them, could not see much gravity in the rest of the 
concoction, and Walcott had scant pity from them. He 
went home disconsolate, little dreaming of the reception 
which awaited him there. 

He occupied a floor in Montagu Place, Bloomsbury, con- 
sisting of three rooms : a drawing-room, a bed-room, and 
a small study ; and, latterly, Mrs. Bundlecombe, whose 
acquaintance the reader has already made, had used abed- 
room at the top of the house. 

Alan’s mother and Mrs. Bundlecombe had been sisters. 
They were the daughters of a well-to-do farmer in Essex, 
and, as will often happen with sisters of the same family, 
brought up and cared for in a precisely similar way, they 
had exhibited a marked contrast in intellect, habits of 
thought, and outward bearing. The one had absorbed the 
natural refinement of her mother, who had come of an old 
Huguenot family long ago settled on English soil ; the 
other was moulded in the robust and coarse type of her 
father. Bessy was by preference the household factotum 
not to say the drudge of the family, with a turn for pud- 
dings, poultry, and the management of servants. Lucy 
clung to her mother, and books (though both were con- 
stant students of The Fa7nily Herald)^ and was nothing 
if not romantic. Both found some one to love them, and 
both, as it happened, were married on the same day. Their 
parents had died within a year of each other, and then the 
orphaned girls had come to terms with their lovers, and 
accepted a yoke of which they had previously fought shy. 
Bessy’s husband was a middle-aged bookseller in the neigh- 
boring town of Thorley, who had admired her thrifty and 
homely ways, and had not been deterred by her want of 
intelligence. Lucy, though her dreams had soared higher, 
was fairly happy with a schoolmaster from Southampton, 
whose acquaintance she had made on a holiday at the 
seaside. 

Alan, who was the only offspring of this latter union, 
had been well brought up, for his father’s careful teaching 
and his mother’s gentleness and imagination supplied 
the complementary touches which are necessary to form 
the basis of culture. The sisters had not drifted apart 
after their marriage so much as might have been expected. 
They had visited each other, and Alan, as he grew up. 


A^A/E AND EAAfE. 


ii6 

conceived a strong affection for his uncle at Thorley, who 
— a childless man himself — gave him delightful books, and 
showed him others still more delightful, who talked to him 
on the subjects which chiefly attracted him, and was the 
first to fire his brain with an ambition to write and be famous. 
Aunt Bessy was tolerated for her husband’s sake, but it was 
Uncle Samuel who drew the lad to Thorley. In due time 
Alan began to teach in his father’s school, and before he 
was twenty-one had taken his degree at London University. 
Then his mother died, and shortly afterwards he was left 
comparatively alone in the world. 

Now, school-keeping had never been a congenial occu- 
pation to Alan, whose poetic temperament was chafed by 
the strict and ungrateful routine of the business. His father 
had been to the manner born, and things had prospered 
with him, but Alan by himself would not have been able 
to achieve a like success. He knew this, and was proud of 
his incapacity ; and he took the first opportunity of hand- 
ing over the establishment to a successor. Tlie money 
which he received for the transfer, added to that which his 
father had left, secured him an income on which it was 
possible to live, and to travel, and to print a volume of 
poems. For a short time, at least, he lived as seemed best 
in his own eyes, and was happy. 

When he was in England he still occasionally visited 
Thorley ; and it was thus that Milly Harrington came to 
know him by sight. Her grandmother did not know the 
Bundlecombes, but Milly came to the conclusion that Alan 
was their son, and this was the tale which she had told to 
Sydney Campion, and which Sydney had repeated to his 
sister. 

The last visit paid by Alan to Thorley was some tim^ 
after his uncle’s death, and he had then confided to his 
aunt the story of his marriage, and of its unfortunate sequel. 
He happened to Ipve learned that the man with whom he 
had fought at Aix-les-Bains was back in London, and it 
seemed not improbable at that moment that he would soon 
hear news of his fugitive wife. When he mentioned this 
to the widow — who was already taking steps to sell her 
stock-in-trade — she immediately conceived the idea that 
her boy, as she called Alan, was in imminent danger, that 
the wife would undoubtedly turn up again, and that it was 
absolutely necessary for his personal safety that he. should 


NAME AND FAME. 


I17 

have an intrepid and watchful woman living in the same 
house with him. So she proposed the arrangement which 
now existed, and Alan had equably fallen in with her plan. 
He did not see much of her when she came to London, 
and there was very little in their tastes which was congenial 
or compatible ; but she kept him straight in the matter of 
his weekly bills and his laundress, and he had no desire to 
quarrel with the way in which she managed these affairs for 
him. 

When Alan came home after his call at the Grahams’, 
weary and disconsolate, with a weight on his mind of 
which he could not rid himself, the door was opened by 
his aunt. Her white face startled him, and still more the 
gesture with which she pointed upstairs, in the direction of 
their rooms. His heart sank at once, for he knew that the 
worst had befallen him. 

“ Hush ! ” said his aunt in a hoarse whisper, “ do not 
go up. She is there. She came in the morning and would 
not go away.” 

“ How is she ? I mean what does she look like ? ” 

He was very quiet ; but he had leaned both hands upon 
the hall table, and was gazing at his aunt with despairing 
eyes. 

“ Bad, my boy, bad ! The worst that a woman can look. 
Oh, Alan, go away, and do not come near her. Fly, im- 
mediately, anywhere out of her reach ! Let me tell her 
that you have gone to the other end of the world rather 
than touch her again. Oh, Alan, my sister’s child ! — go, 
go, and grace abounding be with you.” 

“ No, Aunt Bessy, that will never do. I cannot run 
away. Why, don’t you see for one thing that this will 
prove what lies they have been telling about me ? They 
said I was a murderer — ” he laughed somewhat wildly as 
he spoke — “ and here is the murdered woman. And they 
said there was evidence coming to prove it. Perhaps she 
will tell them how it happened, and how she came to life 
again. There, you see, there is good in everything — even 
in ghosts that come to life again !” 

Then his voice dropped, and the color went out of his 
face. 

“ What is she doing ? ” he asked, in a sombre tone. 

“ She went to sleep on the sofa in the drawing-room. 
She made me send out for brandy, and began to rave at 


ii8 


J\rAM£ AND FAME, 


me in such a way that I was bound to do it, just to keep 
her quiet. And now she is in her drunken sleep ! ” 

Alan shuddered. He knew what that meant. 

“Come,” he said: “let us go up. We cannot stand 
here any longer.” 

They went into his study, which was on the same floor 
as the drawing-room, and here Alan sank upon a chair, 
looking doggedly at the closed door which separated him 
from the curse of his existence. After a while he got up, 
walked across the landing, and quietly opened the door. 

There she lay, a repulsive looking woman, with the 
beauty of her youth corrupted into a hateful mask of vice. 
She had thrown her arms above her head and seemed to 
be fast asleep. 

He returned to the study, shut the door again, and sat 
down at the table, leaning his head upon his hands. Aunt 
Bessy came and sat beside him — not to speak, but only 
that he might know he was not alone. 

“ That,” he muttered to himself at last, “ is my wife ! ” 

The old woman at his side trembled, and laid her hand 
upon his arm. 

“ I am beginning to know her,” he said, after another 
long pause. “ Some men discover the charms of their 
wives before marriage ; others — the fools — find them out 
after. In the first year she was unfaithful to me. Then 
she shot me like a dog. What will the end be ? ” 

“It can be nothing worse, my boy. She has ruined you 
already ; she cannot do it twice. Oh, why did you ever 
. meet her ! Why did not Heaven grant that a good 
woman, like Lettice Campion ” 

“ Do not name her here ! ” he cried sharply. “ Let 
there be something sacred in the world ! ” 

He looked at his aunt as he spoke ; but she did not re- 
turn his gaze. She was sitting rigid in her chair, staring 
over his shoulder with affrighted eyes. Alan turned round 
quickly, and started to his feet. 

The woman in the other room had stealthily opened the 
door, and stood there, disheveled and half-dressed, with a 
cunning smile on her face. 

“ Alan, my husband ! ” she said, in French, holding out 
both hands to him, and reeling a step nearer, “ here we 
are at last. I have longed for this day, my friend— let us 
be happy. After so many misfortunes, to be reunited 
once again ! Is it not charming ? ” 


JVJME AND FAME, 


1 19 

She spoke incoherently, running her words into one 
another, and yet doing her best to be understood. 

Alan looked at her steadily. “ What do you want? ” he 
asked. “ Why have you sought me out ? ” 

“ My faith, what should I want ? Money, to begin 
with.’' 

“ And then ? ” 

“ And then — ^justice ! Bah ! Am I not the daughter of 
Testard, who dispensed with his own hand the justice of 
Heaven against his persecutors ? ” 

“ I have heard that before,’* Alan said. “ It was at 
Aix-les-Bains. And you still want justice ! ” 

“Justice, my child. Was it not at Aix-les-Bains that 
you tried to kill Henri de Haiiteville ? Was it not in the 
park hard by that you shot at me, and almost assassinated 
me ? But, have no fear ! All I ask is money — the half 
of your income will satisfy me. Pay me that, and you are 
safe — unless my rage should transport me one of these 
fine days ! Refuse, and I denounce you through the town, 
and play the game of scandal — as I know how to play it ! 
Which shall it be ? ” 

“ You are my wife. Perhaps there is a remedy for that 
— now that you are here, we shall see ! But, meanwhile, 
you have a claim. To-morrow morning I will settle it as 
you wish. You shall not be left to want.” 

“ It is reasonable. Good-night, my friend ! I am go- 
ing to sleep again.” 

She went back into the drawing-room, laughing aloud, 
whilst Alan, after doing his best to console Mrs. Bundle- 
combe, departed in search of a night’s lodging under 
another roof. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

SIR JOHN PYNSENT PROPHESIES. 

On a sultry evening in the middle of August a few choice 
spirits were gathered together in one of the smoking-rooms 
of the Oligarchy. 

All but one were members of the Upper or Lower 
House, and they were lazily enjoying the unusual chance 
(for such busy men, and at such a critical period of the 


120 


NAME AND FAME, 


session) which enabled them to smoke their cigars in Pall 
Mall before midnight on a Tuesday. Either there had 
been a count-out, or there was obstruction in the House, 
wiiich was no immediate concern of theirs, or they had 
made an arrangement with their Whip, and were awaiting 
a telegram which did not come ; but, whatever the reason, 
here they were, lazy and contented. 

There was our old friend. Sir John Pynsent; and 
Charles Milton, Q.C., certain to be a law officer or a judge, 
as soon as the Conservatives had their chance ; and Lord 
Ambermere ; and the Honorable Tom Willoughby, who 
had been trained at Harrow, Oxford, and Lord’s Cricket 
Ground, and who was once assured by his Balliol tutor 
that his wit would never make him a friend, nor his face 
an enemy. The last of the circle was Brooke Dalton, of 
whom this narrative has already had something to record. 

So Tourmaline has thrown up the sponge, Pynsent? ” 
Charles Milton began, after a short pause in the conversa- 
tion. ‘‘ Had enough of the Radical crew by this time ! ” 

“Yes. Of course, he has been out of sympathy with 
them for a long while. So have twenty or thirty more, if 
the truth were known.” 

“ As you know it ! ” Dalton interjected. 

“ Well, I know some things. The line of cleavage in 
the Liberal party is tolerably well marked, if you have 
eyes to see.” 

“ Why does Tourmaline leave the House ? I hear he 
would stand an excellent chance if he went to Vanebury 
and started as an Independent.” 

“ No doubt he would ; but in a weak moment he 
pledged himself down there not to do it.” 

“ What hard lines ! ” said Tom Willoughby. “ Just one 
pledge too many ! ” 

“ And so,” continued Pynsent, without noticing the in- 
terruption, “ we have had to look out for another candi- 
date. I settled the matter this afternoon, and I am glad 
to say that Campion has promised to go down.” 

“Just the man for the job,” said Milton, who looked 
upon Sydney as sure to be a formidable rival in Parlia- 
ment, and more likely than any other young Conservative 
to cut him out of the Solicitorship.. “He has tongue, 
and he has tact — and he has something else. Sir John, 
which is worth the two put together — good friends ! ” 


J\rAME AND FAME. 


121 


“ We think very highly of Campion,” said Sir John 
Pynsent, “ and I am very glad you confirm our opinion.” 

I certainly think he will make his mark,” said Dalton. 
“ He comes of a very able family.” 

Dalton found himself recalling the appearance and words 
of Miss Lettice Campion, whom he had met so often of 
late at the house of his cousin, Mrs. Hartley, and who had 
made a deeper impression than ever on his mind. Impres- 
sions were somewhat fugitive, as a rule, on Brooke Dalton’s 
mind ; but he had come to admire Lettice with a fervor 
unusual with him. 

“ From all I can learn,” said the baronet, “ we ought to 
win the seat ; and every two new votes won in that way 
are worth half-a-dozen such as Tom Willoughby’s, for 
instance, whose loyalty is a stale and discounted fact.” 

“ Oh, yes, I know that is how you regard us buttresses 
from the counties ! I declare I will be a fifth party, and 
play for my own hand.” 

“It isn’t in you, my boy,” said Lord Ambermere; “I 
never knew you play for your own hand yet.” 

“ Then what am I in Parliament for, I should like to 
know ? ” 

“ For that very thing, of course ; to learn how to do it.” 

Willoughby laughed good-naturedly. He did not object 
to be made a butt of by his intimate friends. 

“ Seriously, Tom, there is plenty of work for a fellow 
like you to do.” 

It was Pynsent who spoke, and the others were always 
ready to lend him their ears when he evidently wanted to 
be listened to. 

“ The main thing is to get hold of the Whigs, and work at 
them quietly and steadily until the time comes to strike our 
blow. The great Houses are safe, almost to a man. When it 
comes to choosing between Democracy rampant, with Glad- 
stone at its head, assailing the most sacred elements of 
the Constitution, and a great National Party, or Union of 
Parties, guarding Property and the Empire against attack, 
there is no question as to how they will make their choice. 
But if every Whig by birth or family ties came over to us 
at once, that would not suffice for our purpose. What 

we have to do is get at the the Decent Men of the 

Liberal Party, such as the aldermen, the shipowners, the 
great contractors and directors of companies, and, of 


122 


NAME AND FAME. 


course, the men with a stake in the land. No use men- 
tioning names — we all know pretty well who they are.” 

“ And when you have got at them ? ” asked Willoughby. 

Why, lay yourself out to please them. Flatter them 
— show them all the attention in your power ; take care 
that they see and hear what is thought in the highest 
quarters about the present tendency of things — about 
Ireland, about the Empire, about the G. O. M. Let them 
understand how they are counted on to decide the issue, 
and what they would have to look for if we were once 
in power. Above all, ride them easy ! It is impossible 
that they should become Tories — don’t dream of such 
a thing. They are to be Liberals to the end of their days, 
but Liberals with an Epithet.” 

“ Imperi ” 

“ No, no, no, no, my dear boy ! Any number of noes. 
You must not live so much in the past. The great idea to 
harp upon is Union. Union against a common enemy. 
Union against Irish rebels. Union against Gladstone and 
the Democracy ; but draw this very mild until you feel 
that you are on safe ground. Union is the word, and 
Unionist is the Epithet. Liberal Unionists. That is the 
inevitable phrase, and it will fit any crisis that may arise.” 

“ But suppose they dish us with the County franchise ? ” 

“ We must make a fight over that ; but for my part I am 
not afraid of franchises. There is a Tory majority to be 
picked out of manhood suffrage, as England will surely 
discover some day. Possibly the County franchise must 
be cleared out of the way before we get our chance. What 
will that mean ? Why, simply that Gladstone will think it 
necessary to use his first majority in order to carry some 
great Act of Confiscation ; to make Hodge your master ; 
or to filch a bit of your land for him ; or to join hands with 
Parnell and cut Ireland adrift. Then we shall have our 
opportunity ; and that is what we have to prepare for.” 

Lord Ambermere, and Dalton, and Milton, Q.C., nodded 
their heads. They had heard all this before ; but to Wil- 
loughby it was new, for he had only just begun to put 
himself into the harness of political life. 

“ How can we help ourselves,” he said, “ if the laborers 
have returned a lot of new men, and there is a big Liberal 
majority ? ” 

‘‘ That is the point, of course. Well, put it at the worst. 
Say that Gladstone has a majority of eighty, without Par- 


JVAME AND FAME. 


123 


nell, and say that Parnell can dispose of eighty. Say, 
again, that the Irishmen are ready to support Gladstone, 
in the expectation of favors to come. Now let the Old 
Man adopt either a Nationalist policy or an out-and-out 
Democratic policy, and assume that the Union for which 
we have been working takes effect. In order to destroy 
Gladstone’s majority of one hundred and sixty, at least 
eighty of his nominal followers must come over. Of these, 
the pure Whigs will count for upwards of forty, and another 
forty must be forthcoming from the men I have just 
described. That is putting it at the worst — and it is safer 
to do so. Now the question is, Tom Willoughby, what 
can you do, and whom can you tackle ? I don’t want you 
to give me an answer, but only to think it over.” 

“ Oh, if you only want thinking, I’m the beggar to think. 
But — suppose you land your alderman, and he don’t get 
re-elected in 1885 or thereabouts ? That would be a fright- 
ful sell, don’t you know ! ” 

Why, that is just where the beauty of the plan comes 
in ! A seat in the House of Commons will always be more 
or less of a vested interest, however low the franchise may 
descend ; and the men we are speaking of are precisely 
those most likely to continue in the House. It is espe- 
cially so in the case of very wealthy men, who have made 
their own money ; for they look out for comfortable seats 
to begin with, and then nurse their constituencies by large 
charitable donations, so that the chances are all in their 
favor. At any rate this is the best way of setting to work 
— and who can tell whether the struggle may not come to 
a crisis in the present Parliament ? ” 

“ And you feel as confident as ever. Sir John, that this 
Union will be effected ? ” 

“ My dear Lord Ambermere, I assure you I am more 
confident than ever, and if I were at liberty to say all I 
know, and to show my private memoranda, you would be 
astonished at the progress which has been made in this 
Confederation of Society against the Destructive Ele- 
ments.” 

It was a great comfort in listening to Sir John Pynsent, 
that one could always tell where he wanted to bring in his 
capital letters. And there was no doubt at all about the 
uncial emphasis with which he spoke of the Confederation 
of Society against the Destructive Elements.” 


124 


ATAME AND FAME, 


At this moment Sydney Campion came in and the con- 
clave was broken up. 

Sydney was full of excitement about his contest at Vane- 
bury, and he received the congratulations and good wishes 
of his friends with much complacency. He was already 
the accepted Conservative candidate, being nominated 
from the Oligarchy Club in response to an appeal from the 
local leaders. He had even been recommended by name 
in a letter from Mr. Tourmaline, the retiring member, whose 
secession to the Conservative party had demoralized his 
former friends in the constituency, and filled his old 
opponents with joy. He was going down the next day to 
begin his canvass, and to make his first speech ; and he 
had come to the Club to-night for a final consultation with 
Sir John Pynsent. 

This Vanebury election would not, there was reason to 
think, be so much affected by money-bags as the election 
at Dormer was supposed to be, sixteen or eighteen months 
before. Yet money was necessary, and Sydney did not on 
this occasion refuse the aid which was pressed upon him. 
He was responding to the call of his party, at a moment 
which might be (though it was not) very inconvenient for 
him; and, having put down the foot of dignity last year, 
he could now hold out the hand of expediency with a very 
good grace. 

So he took his money, and went down, and before he 
had been in Vanebury six hours the Conservatives there 
understood that they had a very strong candidate, who 
would give a good account of himself, and who deserved 
to be worked for. 

His personal presence was imposing. Sydney was above 
the middle height, erect and broad-shouldered, with a keen 
and handsome, rather florid, face, a firm mouth, and pene- 
trating steel-blue eyes. He was careful of his appearance, 
too, and from his well-cut clothes and his well-trimmed 
brown hair, beard, and whiskers, it was easy to see that 
there was nothing of the slipshod about this ambitious 
young emissary from the Oligarchy Club. 

In manner he was very persuasive. He had a frank 
and easy way of addressing an audience, which he had 
picked up from a popular tribune — leaning one shoulder 
towards them at an angle of about eighty degrees, and 
rounding his periods with a confidential smile, which 


NAAfE AND FAME. 


125 


seemed to assure his hearers that they were as far above 
the average audience as he was above the average candi- 
date. He did not feel the slightest difficulty in talking 
for an hour at a stretch, and two or three times on the 
same day ; and, indeed, it would have been strange if he 
had, considering his Union experience at Cambridge and 
his practice at the Bar. 

Sydney won upon all classes at Vanebury, and the sport- 
ing gentlemen in that thriving borough were soon giving 
odds upon his chance of success. The Liberals were for 
the most part careless and over-confident. Their man had 
won every election for twenty years past, and they could 
not believe that this Tory lawyer was destined to accom- 
plish what all the local magnates had failed in attempting. 
But a few of the wisest amongst them shook their heads, 
for they knew too well that “ Tourmaline the Traitor and 
Turncoat ” (as the posters described him) was by no means 
alone in his discontent with the tendencies of the party. 

The attention of the country was fixed upon the Vane- 
bury election, and Sydney Campion had become at once 
the observed of all observers. He knew it, and made the 
most of the situation, insisting in his speeches that this was 
a test-election, which would show what the country thought 
of the government, of its bribes to ignorance and its capi- 
tulation to rebellion, of its sacrifice of our honor abroad 
and our interests at home. He well knew what the effect 
of this would be on his friends in London, and how he 
would have earned their gratitude if he could carry the 
seat on these lines. 

On the day before the poll, Sir John Pynsent came to 
Vanebury, to attend the last of the public meetings. 

“ Admirably done, so far ! ” he said, as he grasped Syd- 
ney’s hand at the station. “ How are things looking?” 

‘‘It is a certain win!” said Sydney. “No question 
about it.” 

And a win it was, such as any old campaigner might 
have been proud of. The numbers as declared by the 
returning officer were : 

4765 



4564 


Majority . . 


201 


126 


NAME AND FAME, 


At the last election Tourmaline had had a majority of 
six hundred over his Conservative opponent, so that there 
had been a turnover of about four hundred voters. And 
no one doubted that a large number of these had made up 
their minds to turn since Campion had begun his can- 
vass. 

This was a complete success for Sydney. He was now 
Mr. Campion, M.P., with both feet on the ladder of ambi- 
tion. Congratulations poured in upon him from all sides, 
and from that moment he was recognized by everybody as 
one of the coming men of the Conservative party. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

SYDNEY MAKES A MISTAKE. 

There was a social side to Sydney’s success which he was 
not slow to appreciate. A poor and ambitious man, bent 
on climbing the ladder of promotion, he was willing to avail 
himself of every help which came in his way. And Sir 
John Pynsent was good-naturedly ready to give him a help- 
ing hand. 

During the past season he had found himself welcome in 
houses where the best society of the day was wont to con- 
gregate. He had several invitations for the autumn to 
places where it was considered a distinction to be invited ; 
and, being a man of much worldly wisdom, he»was disposed 
to be sorry that he had made arrangements to go abroad 
for two or three months. He was vague in detailing his 
plans to his friends ; but in his own mind he was never 
vague, and he knew what he meant to do and where he was 
going to spend the vacation well enough, although he did 
not choose to take club acquaintances into his confidence. 

But one invitation, given by Sir John Pynsent, for the 
Sunday subsequent to his election — or rather, from Satur- 
day to Monday — he thought it expedient as well as pleasant 
to accept. Vanebury was a very few miles distant from 
St. John’s country-house, and when the baronet, in capital 
spirits over his friend’s success, urged him to run over to 
Culverley for a day or two, he could not well refuse. 

“ I am going for the Sunday,” Sir John said confiden- 
tially, “ but my wife doesn’t expect me to stay longer until 


JVAME AND FAME, 


127 


the session is over. I run down every week, you know, 
except when she's in town ; but she always leaves London 
in June. My sister is under her wing, and she declares 
that late hours and the heat of London in July are very 
bad for girls. Of course, I’m glad that she looks after my 
sister so well.” 

Sydney recognized the fact that he had never before 
been taken into Sir John’s confidence with respect to his 
domestic affairs. 

“ Lady Pynsent asked me the other day whether I could 
not get you to come down to us,” Sir John continued. “ I 
am always forgetting her messages ; but if you can spare a 
couple of days now, we shall be vei^ glad to have you. 
Indeed, you must not refuse,” he said, hospitably. “ And 
you ought to see something of the county.” 

Sydney had met Lady Pynsent in town. She was a 
large, showy-looking woman, with fair hair and a very 
aquiline nose ; a woman who liked to entertain, and who 
did it well. He had dined at the Wentworths’ house more 
than once, and he began to search in his memory for any 
face or figure which should recall Sir John’s sister to his 
mind. But he could not remember her, and concluded, 
therefore, that she was in no way remarkable. 

“ I think I have not met Miss Pynsent,” he took an 
opportunity of saying, by way of an attempt to refresh his 
memory. 

“No? I think you must have seen her somewhere. 
But she did not go out much this spring : she is rather 
delicate, and not very fond of society. She’s my half-sis- 
ter, you know, considerably younger than I am — came out 
the season before last.” 

Another acquaintance of Sydney’s privately volunteered 
the information later in the day that Miss Pynsent had 
sixty thousand pounds of her own, and was reputed to be 
clever. 

“ I hate clever women,” Sydney said, with an inward 
growl at his sister Lettice, whose conduct had lately given 
him much uneasiness. “A clever woman and an heiress ! 
Ye gods, how very ugly she must be.” 

His friend laughed in a meaning manner, and wagged his 
head mysteriously . But what he would have said remained 
unspoken, because at that moment Sir John rejoined 
them. 


128 


J^AME AND FAME. 


Sydney flattered himself that he was ngt impressible, or 
at least that the outward trappings of wealth and rank did 
not impress him. But he was distinctly pleased to find 
that Sir John’s carriage and pair, which met them at the 
station, was irreproachable, and that Culverley was a very 
fine old house, situated in the midst of a lovely park and 
approached by an avenue of lime-trees, which, Sir John 
informed him, \yas one of the oldest in the country. Syd- 
ney had an almost unduly keen sense of the advantage 
which riches can bestow, and he coveted social almost as 
much as professional standing for himself. It was, per- 
haps, natural that the son of a poor man, who had been 
poor all his life, and^owed his success to his own brains 
and his power of continued work, should look a little envi- 
ously on the position so readily attained by men of inferior 
mental calibre, but of inherited and ever-increasing influ- 
ence, like Sir John Pynsent and his friends. Sydney never 
truckled : he was perfectly independent in manner and in 
thought ; but the good things of the world were so desir- 
able to him that for some of them — as he confessed to 
himself with a half-laugh at his own weakness — he would 
almost have sold his soul. 

They arrived at Culverley shortly before dinner, and 
Sydney had time for very few introductions before going 
to the dining-room. He was surprised to find a rather 
large party present. There were several London men and 
women whom he knew already, and who were staying in 
the house, and there was a contingent of county people, 
who had only come to dinner. The new member for Vane- 
bury was made much of, especially by the county folk ; and 
as Sydney was young, handsome, and a good talker, he 
soon made himself popular amongst them. For himself, 
he did not find the occasion interesting, save as a means 
of social success. Most of the men were dull, and the 
women prim and proper : there were not more than two 
pretty girls in the whole party. 

“ That’s the heiress, I suppose,” thought Sydney, hear- 
ing a spectacled, sandy-haired young woman who looked 
about five-and-twenty addressed as Miss Pynsent. “ Plain, 
as I thought. There’s not a woman here worth looking at, 
except Mrs. George Murray. I’ll talk to her after dinner. 
Not one of them is a patch on little Milly. I wonder how 
she would look, dressed up in silks and satins. Pynsent 


JVAME AND FAME, 


129 

knows how to choose his wine and his cook better than his 
company, I fancy.” 

But his supercilious contempt for the county was well 
veiled, and the people who entered into conversation with 
Sydney Campion, the new M.P. for Vanebury, put him 
down as a very agreeable man, as well as a rising poli- 
tician. 

His own position was pleasant enough. He was treated 
with manifest distinction — flattered, complimented, well- 
nigh caressed. In the drawing-room after dinner, Sydney, 
surrounded by complacent and adulating friends, really 
experienced some of the most agreeable sensations of his 
life. He was almost sorry when the group gradually 
melted away, and conversation was succeeded by music. 
He had never cultivated his taste for music, but he had a 
naturally fine ear, upon which ordinary drawing-room per- 
formances jarred sadly. But, standing with his arms folded 
and his back against the wall, in the neighborhood of Mrs. 
George Murray, the prettiest woman in the room, he be- 
came gradually aware that Lady Pynsent’s musicians were 
as admirable in their way as her cook. She would no more 
put up with bad singing than bad songs ; and she probably 
put both on the same level. She did not ask amateurs to 
sing or play ; but she had one or two professionals staying 
in the house, who were “charmed” to perform for her; 
and she had secured a well-known “ local man ” to play 
accompaniments. In the case of one at least of the pro- 
fessionals, Lady Pynsent paid a very handsome fee for his 
services ; but this fact was not supposed to transpire to the 
general public. 

When the professionals had done their work there was 
a little pause, succeeded by the slight buzz that spoke of 
expectation. “ Miss Pynsent is going to play,” Mrs. Mur- 
ray said to Sydney, putting up her long-handled eyeglass 
and looking expectantly towards the grand piano. “ Oh, 
now, we shall have a treat.” 

“ Sixty thousand pounds,” Sydney said to himself with 
a smile ; but he would not for the world have said it aloud. 
“ We must put up with bad playing from its fortunate 
possessor, I suppose.” And he turned his head with 
resignation in the direction of the little inner drawing- 
room, in which the piano stood. This room should, per- 
haps, be described as an alcove, rather than a separate 


130 


NAME AND FAME, 


apartment : it was divided from the great drawing-room 
by a couple of shallow steps that ran across its whole 
width, so that a sort of natural stage was formed, framed 
above and on either side by artistically festooned curtains 
of yellow brocade. 

“Isn’t it effective?” Mrs. Murray murmured to him, 
with a wave of her eyeglass to the alcove. “ So useful for 
tableaux and plays, you know. Awfully clever of Lady 
Pynsent to use the room in that way. There used once 
to be folding doors, you know — barbarous, wasn’t it? 
Who would use doors when curtains could be had ? ” 

“ Doors are useful sometimes,” said Sydney. But he 
was not in the least attentive either to her words or to his 
own : he was looking towards the alcove. 

Miss Pynsent — the young woman with sandy locks and 
freckled face, on which a broad, good-humored smile was 
beaming — was already seated at the piano and turning over 
her music. Presently she began to play, and Sydney, little 
as was his technical knowledge of the art, acknowledged at 
once that he had been mistaken, and that Miss Pynsent, in 
spite of being an heiress, played remarkably well. But the 
notes were apparently those of an accompaniment only — 
was she going to sing ? Evidently not, for at that moment 
another figure slipped forward from the shadows of the 
inner drawing-room, and faced the audience. 

This was a girl who did not look more than eighteen or 
nineteen : a slight fragile creature in white, with masses 
of dusky hair piled high above a delicate, pallid, yet un- 
mistakably beautiful, face. The large dark eyes, the 
curved, sensitive mouth, the exquisite modelling of the 
features, the graceful lines of the slightly undeveloped 
figure, the charming pose of head and neck, the slender 
wrist bent round the violin which she held, formed a pic- 
ture of almost ideal loveliness. Sydney could hardly 
refrain from an exclamation of surprise and admiration. 
He piqued himself on knowing a little about everything 
that was worth knowing, and he had a considerable ac- 
quaintance with art, so that the first thing which oc- 
curred to him was to seek for a parallel to the figure 
before him in the pictures with which he was acquainted. 
She was not unlike a Sir Joshua, he decided ; and yet — in 
the refinement of every feature, and a certain sweetness 
and tranquillity of expression — she reminded him of a Dona- 


NAME AND FAME. 


131 

tello that he had seen in one of his later visits to Florence 
or Sienna. He had always thought that if he were ever 
rich he would buy pictures ; and he wondered idly whe- 
ther money would buy the Donatello of which the white- 
robed violin-player reminded him. 

One or two preliminary tuning notes were sounded, and 
then the violinist began to play. Her skill was undoubted, 
but the feeling and pathos which she threw into the long- 
drawn sighing notes were more remarkable even than her 
skill. There was a touch of genius in her performance 
which held the listeners enthralled. When she had finished, 
she disappeared behind the curtains as rapidly as she had 
emerged from the shadows of the dimly-lighted inner room ; 
and in the pause that followed, the opening and .shutting 
of a door was heard. 

“ Who is she ? ” said Sydney to his neighbor. 

“ Oh, Miss Pynsent, of course,” said Mrs. Murray. 
“ Delightful, isn’t she? ” 

I don’t mean Miss Pynsent,” said Sydney, in some 
confusion of mind ; “ I mean ” 

But Mrs. Murray had turned to somebody else, and 
scraps of conversation floated up to Sydney’s ears, and 
gave him, as he thought, the information that he was seek- 
ing. 

“So devoted to Lady Pynsent’s children! Now that 
little Frankie has a cold, they say she won’t leave him 
night or day. They had the greatest trouble to get her 
down to play to-night. Awfully lucky for Lady Pynsent,” 
and then the voices were lowered, but Sydney heard some- 
thing about “ the last governess,” and “ a perfect treasure,” 
which seemed to reveal the truth. 

“ The governess I A violin-playing governess,” he 
thought, with a mixture of scorn and relief, which he did 
not altogether understand in himself. “ Ah I that’s the 
reason she did not come down to dinner. She is a very 
pretty girl, and no doubt Lady Pynsent keeps her in the 
nursery or school-room as much as possible. I should 
like to see her again. Perhaps, as to-morrow is Sunday, 
she may come down with the children.” 

It will be evident to the meanest capacity that Sydney 
was making an absurd mistake as to the identity of the 
violinist. The most unsophisticated novel-reader in the 
world would cast contempt and ridicule on the present 


132 


NAME AND FAME. 


writers if they, in their joint capacity, introduced the 
young lady in white as actually Lady Pynsent’s governess. 
To avoid misunderstanding on the point, therefore, it may 
as well be premised that she was in fact Miss Anna Pyn- 
sent. Sir John’s half sister, and that Mr. Campion’s conclu- 
sions respecting her position were altogether without 
foundation. 

Having, however, made up his mind about her, Sydney 
took little further interest in the matter. One or two com- 
plimentary remarks were made in his hearing about Miss 
Pynsent’s playing ; but he took them to apply to the 
sandy-haired Miss Pynsent whom he had seen at dinner, 
and only made a silent cynical note of the difference with 
which the violinist and the accompanist were treated. He 
never flew in the face of the world himself, and therefore 
he did not try to readjust the balance of compliment : he 
simply acquiesced in the judgment of the critics, and 
thought of the Donatello. 

A long conference in the smoking-room on political 
matters put music and musicians out of his head ; and 
when he went to sleep, about two o’clock in the morning, 
it was to dream, if he dreamt at all, of his maiden speech 
in Parliament, and that elevation to the woolsack which 
his mother was so fond of prophesying. 

Sydney was an early riser, and breakfast on Sundays at 
Culverley was always late. He was tempted by the 
beauty of the morning to go for a stroll in the gardens ; 
and thence he wandered into the park, where he breathed 
the fresh cool air with pleasure, and abandoned himself, as 
usual, to a contemplation of the future. The park was 
quickly crossed, for Sydney scarcely knew how to loiter in 
his walking, more than in any other of his actions ; and he 
then plunged into a fir plantation which fringed a stretch 
of meadow-land, now grey and drenched with dew and 
shining in the morning sun. Even to Sydney’s unimagin- 
ative mind the scene had its charm, after the smoke of 
London and the turmoil of the last few days : he came to 
the edge of the plantation, leaned his elbows on the top- 
most rail of a light fence, and looked away to the blue 
distance, where the sheen of water and mixture of light and 
shade were, even in his eyes, worth looking at. A cock 
crowed in a neighboring farmyard, and a far-axvay clock 
struck seven. It was earlier than he had thought. 


NAME AND FAME. 


133 


Two or three figures crossing the meadow attracted his 
attention. First came a laboring man with a pail. Sydney 
watched him aimlessly until he was out of sight. Then a 
child — a gentleman’s child, judging from his dress and 
general appearance — a boy of six or seven, who seemed to 
be flying tumultuously down the sloping meadow to escape 
from his governess or nurse. The field ran down to a 
wide stream, which was crossed at one point by a plank, 
at another by stepping-stones ; and it was towards these 
stepping-stones that the boy directed his career. Behind 
him, but at considerable distance, came the slender figure 
of a young woman, who seemed to be pursuing him. The 
child reached the stream, and there stood laughing, his fair 
curls floating in the wind, his feet firmly planted on one of 
the stones that had been thrown into the water. 

Sydney was by no means inclined to play knight-errant 
to children and attendant damsels, and he would probably 
have continued to watch the little scene without advancing, 
had not the girl, halting distressfully to call the truant, 
chanced to turn her face so that the strong morning light 
fell full upon it. Why, it was the violinist ! Or was he 
deceived by some chance resemblance ? Sydney did not 
think so, but it behoved him instantly to go and see. 

Indeed, before he reached the stream, his help seemed to 
be needed. The boy, shouting and dancing, had missed 
his footing and fallen headlong in the stream, which, for- 
tunately, was very shallow and not very swift. Sydney 
quickened his pace to a run, and the girl did the same ; 
but before either of them reached its bank the boy had 
scrambled out again, and was sitting on the further side 
with a sobered countenance and in a very drenched con- 
dition. 

“ Oh, Jack ! ” said the girl reproachfully, “ how could 
you ? ” 

I want some mushrooms. I said I would get them,” 
Jack answered, sturdily. 

“ You must come back at once. But — how are you to 
get over?” she said, contemplating the slippery stones 
with some dismay. For Jack’s fall had displaced more 
than one of them, and there was now a great gap between 
the stones in the deepest part of the little stream. 

“Can I be of any assistance?” said Sydney, availing 
himself of his opportunity to come forward. 


134 


NAME AND FAME. 


She turned and looked at him inquiringly, the color 
deepening a little in her pale face. 

“ I am staying at Culverley,” he said, in an explanatory 
tone. “ I had the pleasure of hearing you play last night.” 

“ You are Mr. Campion, I think? ” she said. “ Yes, I 
shall be very glad of your help. I need not introduce my- 
self, I see. Jack has been very naughty : he ran away 
from his nurse this morning, and I said that I would bring 
him back. And now he has fallen into the brook.” 

“ We must get him back,” said Sydney, rather amused 
at her matter-of-fact tone. “ I will go over for him.” 

“ No, I am afraid you must not do that,” she answered. 

There is a plank a little further down the stream ; we will 
go there.” 

But Sydney was across the water by this time. He 
lifted the child lightly in his arms and strode back across 
the stones, scarcely wetting himself at all. Then he set 
the boy down at her side. 

“ There ! ” he said, “ that is better than going down to 
the plank. Now, young man, you must run home again as 
fast as you can, or you will catch cold.” 

“ I am very much obliged to you,” said the young lady, 
looking at him, as he thought, rather earnestly, but with- 
out a smile. “Jack, you know, is Sir John Pynsent’s 
eldesi son.” 

“ So I divined. I think he would get home more quickly 
if I took one of his hands and you took the other, and we 
hurried him up the hill ; don’t you think so ? ” 

He had no interest at all in Jack, but he wanted to talk 
with this dark-eyed violin-playing damsel. Sydney had 
indulged in a good deal of flirtation in his time, and he had 
no objection to whiling away an hour in the company of 
any pretty girl ; and yet there was some sort of dignity 
about this girl’s manner which warned him to be a little 
upon his guard. 

“You are member for Vanebiiry,” she said, rather 
abruptly, when they had dragged little Jack some distance 
up the grassy slope. 

“ I have that honor.” 

“ I hope,” she said, with a mixture of gentleness and 
decision which took him by surprise, “ that you mean to 
pay some attention to the condition of the working-classes 
in Vanebury ? ” 


NAME AND FAME. 


135 


Well, I don’t know; is there any special reason ?” 

“ They are badly paid, badly housed, over-worked and 
under-educated,” she said, succinctly ; “ and if the member 
for Vanebury would bestir himself in their cause, I think 
that something might be done.” 

“ Even a member is not omnipotent. I’m afraid.” 

“ No, but he has influence. You are bound to use it for 
good,” she returned. 

Sydney raised his eyebrows. He was not used to 
being lectured on his duties, and this young lady’s remarks 
struck him as slightly impertinent. He glanced at her 
almost as if he would have told her so ; but she looked so 
very pretty and so very young that he could no more check 
her than he could have checked a child. 

“ You have very pretty scenery about here,” he said, by 
way of changing the conversation. 

The girl’s face drooped at once ; she did not answer. 

“ What an odd young woman she is,” said Sydney to him- 
self. “ What an odd governess for the children ! ” 

Suddenly she looked up, with a very sweet bright look. 
“ I am afraid I offended you,” she said, deprecatingly. 

I did not mean to say anything wrong. I am so much 
interested in the Vanebury working people, although we 
are here some miles distant from them, that when I heard 
you were coming I made up my mind at once that I would 
speak to you.” 

“You have — friends, perhaps, in that district?” said 
Sydney. 

“N — no — not exactly,” she said, hesitating. “But I 
know a good deal about Vanebury.” 

“ Nan goes there very often, don’t you, Nan ? ” said little 
Jack, suddenly interposing. “ And papa says you do more 
harm than good.” 

“Nan” colored high. “You should not repeat what 
papa says,” she answered, severely. “ You have often 
been told that it is naughty.” 

“ But it’s true,” Jack murmured, doggedly. And Sydney 
could not help smiling at the discomfited expression on 
“ Nan’s ” face. 

However, he was — or thought he was — quite equal to 
the occasion. He changed the subject, and began talking 
adroitly about her tastes and occupations. Nan soon be- 
came at ease with him, and answered his questions cheer- 


NAME AND FAME. 


136 

fully, although she seemed puzzled now and then by the 
strain of compliment into which he had a tendency to fall. 
The house was reached at last ; and Jack snatched his 
hands from those of his companions, and ran indoors. 
Nan halted at a side-door, and now spoke with the sweet 
earnestness that impressed Sydney even more than her 
lovely face. 

“You have been very kind to us, Mr. Campion. I 
don’t know how to thank you.” 

It was on the tip of Sydney’s tongue to use some 
badinage such as he would have done, in his light and easy 
fashion, to a servant-maid or shop-girl. But something in 
her look caused him, luckily, to refrain. He went as near 
as he dared to the confines of love-making. 

“ Give me the flower you wear,” he said, leaning a little 
towards her. “ Then I shall at least have a remembrance 
of you.” 

His tone and his look were warmer than he knew. She 
shrank back, visibly surprised, and rather offended. Be- 
fore he could add a word she had quietly taken the rose- 
bud from her dress, handed it to him, and disappeared 
into the house, closing the door behind her in a somewhat 
uncompromising way. Sydney was left alone on the 
gravelled path, with a half-withered rosebud in his hand, 
and a consciousness of having made himself ridiculous. 

“ She seems to be rather a little vixen,” he said to him- 
self, as he strolled up to his rooms to make some change 
in his clothes, which were dami)er than he liked. “ What 
business has a pretty little governess to take that tone? 
Deuced out of place, I call it. I wonder if she’ll be down 
to breakfast. She has very fetching eyes.” 

But she was not down to breakfast, and nothing was 
said about her, so Sydney concluded that her meals were 
taken in the schoolroom with /the children. 

“ Such a pity — poor dear Nan has a headache,” he 
heard Lady Pynsent saying by and by. “ I hoped that 
she would come down and give us some music this even- 
ing, but she says she won’t be able for it.” 

Sydney consoled himself with pretty Mrs. Murray. 

“ The fair violinist is out of tune, it seems,” he said, in 
the course of an afternoon stroll with the new charmer. 

“ Who ? Oh, Nan Pynsent.” 

^‘Pynsent? No. At least, I don’t mean the pianiste : 
I mean the young lady who played the violin last night.” 


J^AAfE AND FAME. 


137 


Yes, Nan Pynsent, Sir John’s half-sister. The heiress 
— and some people say the beauty of the county. Why 
do you look so stupefied, Mr. Campion ? ” 

“ I did not know her, that was all. I thought — who, 
then, is the lady who played the piano ? ” 

“ Mary Pynsent, a cousin. You surely did not think 
that she was the heiress ? ” 

“ Why did not Sir John’s sister come down to dinner ? ” 
said Sydney, waxing angry. 

“ She has a craze about the children. Their governess 
is away, and she insists on looking after them. She is 
rather quixotic, you know ; full of grand schemes for the 
future, and what she will do when she comes of age. Her 
property is all in Vanebury, by the bye : you must let her 
talk to you about the miners if you want to win her favor. 
She will be of age in a few months.” 

“ I shall not try to win her favor.” 

“ Dear me, how black you look, Mr. Campion. Are 
you vexed that you have not made her acquaintance ? ” 

“ Not at all,” said Sydney, clearing his brow. “ How 
could I have looked at her when you were there ? ” 

The banal compliment pleased Mrs. Murray, and she 
began to talk of trivial matters in her usual trivial strain. 
Sydney scarcely listened : for once he was disconcerted, 
and angry with himself. He knew that he would have 
talked in a very different strain if he had imagined for one 
moment that Jack’s companion was Miss Pynsent. He 
had not, perhaps, definitely said anything that he could 
regret ; but he was sorry for the whole tone of his conver- 
sation. Would Miss Pynsent repeat his observations, he 
wondered, to her sister-in law ? Sydney did not often put 
himself in a false position, but he felt that his tact had 
failed him now. He returned to the house in an un- 
usually disturbed state of mind ; and a sentence which he 
overheard in tlie afternoon did not add to his tranquillity. 

He was passing along a corridor that led, as he thought, 
to his own room ; but the multiplicity of turnings had be- 
wildered him, and he was obliged to retrace his steps. 
While doing so, he passed Lady Pynsent’s boudoir. Al- 
though he was unconscious of this fact, his attention was 
attracted by the sound of a voice from within. Nan Pyn- 
sent’s voice was not loud, but it had a peculiarly penetrat- 
ing quality; and her words followed Sydney down the 
corridor with disagreeable distinctness. 


AND FAME. 


138 

“ Selina,” she was saying— Selina was Lady Pynsent’s 
name — “ I thought you said that Mr. Campion was a 
gentle7nan ! ” 

“ Well, dear ” Lady Pynsent was beginning j but 

Sydney, quickening his steps, heard no more. He was 
now in a rage, and disposed to vote Miss Pynsent the 
most unpleasant, conceited young person of his acquain- 
tance. That anybody should doubt his “ gentilhood ” was 
an offence not to be lightly borne. He was glad to re- 
member that he was leaving Culverley next day, and he 
determined that he would rather avoid the female Pyn- 
sents than otherwise when they came to town. He could 
not yet do without Sir John, and he was vexed to think 
that these women should have any handle — however tri- 
fling — against him. He thanked his stars that he had not 
actually made love to Miss Anna Pynsent ; and he hur- 
ried back to town next morning by the earliest train, with- 
out setting eyes on her again. In town, amidst the bustle 
of political and social duties, he soon forgot the unpleasant 
impression that this little episode of his visit to Culverly 
had left upon his mind. 

He went to Maple Cottage on the very day of his return 
to London, to hear what his mother and sister had to say 
about his success. And he took an opportunity also of 
telling Milly Harrington something of the glories which he 
had achieved, and the privilege which he enjoyed in being 
able to absent himself from his native country for two or 
three months at a stretch. 

About the end of August, Lettice had to look out for a 
new maid. Milly went away, saying that she had heard 
of a better place. She had obtained it without applying to 
her mistress for a character. She had not been so atten- 
tive to her duties of late as to make Lettice greatly regret 
her departure ; but remembering old Mrs. Harrington’s 
fears for her grand-daughter, Lettice made many inquiries 
of Milly as to her new place. She received, as she thought, 
very satisfactory replies, although she noticed that the girl 
changed color strangely, and looked confused and anxious 
when she was questioned. And when the time came for 
her to go, Milly wept bitterly, and was heard to express a 
wish that she had resolved to stay with Miss Lettice after 
all 


J\rAM£ AND FAME. 


*39 


CHAPTER XV. 

SOME UNEXPECTED MEETINGS. 

• 

Two or three months had passed since Alan’s wife came 
back to him. 

He had arranged, with the aid of a lawyer, to allow her 
a certain regular income — with the consequence to himself 
that he had been obliged to give up his floor in Montagu 
Place and settle down in the humbler and dingier refuge of 
Alfred Place. Meanwhile, he had taken steps to collect 
sufficient evidence for a divorce. He had not yet entered 
his suit, and he felt pretty certain that when he did so, 
and Cora was made aware of it in the usual manner, she 
would find some way of turning round and biting him. 

But the desire to be free from his trammels had taken 
possession of him with irresistible force, and he was pre- 
pared to risk the worst that she could do to him in order 
to accomplish it. Even as it was, he had reason to think 
that she was not true to her undertaking not to slander or 
molest him so long as she received her allowance. He 
had twice received offensive post-cards, and though there 
was nothing to prove from whom they came, he could have 
very little doubt that they had been posted by her in mo- 
ments when jealous rage or intoxication had got the better 
of her prudence. 

I'lie scandal which began to fasten upon his name after 
Sydney Campion had heard Brooke Dalton’s story in the 
smoking-room of the Oligarchy was almost forgotten again, 
though it lurked in the memory of many a thoughtless re- 
tailer of gossip, ready to revive on the slightest provocation. 

More for Leitice’s sake than his own, he lived in complete 
retirement, and scarcely ever left his lodgings except to 
spend a few hours in the Museum Reading Room. In this 
way he avoided the chance of meeting her, as well as the 
chance of encountering his wretched wife, concerning 
whose mode of life he had only too trustworthy evidence 


140 


NAME AND FAME, 


from the lawyer to whom he had committed his interests. 

Then there came a day when he could not deny himself 
the pleasure of attending a conversazione for which tickets 
had been sent him by an old friend. The subject to be dis- 
cussed in the course of the evening was one in which he was 
specially interested, and his main object in going was that 
he might be made to forget fora few hours the misery of his 
present existence, which the last of Cora’s post-cards had 
painfully impressed upon him. 

He had not been there more than*half-an-hour, when, 
moving with the crowd from one room to another, he sud- 
denly came face to face with Lettice and the Grahams. All 
of them were taken by surprise, and there was a little con- 
straint in their greeting. Perhaps Lettice was the least 
disturbed of the four — for the rest of them thought chiefly 
of her, whilst she thought of Alan’s possible embarrass- 
ment, which she did her best to overcome, with the ready 
tact of an unselfish woman. 

Alan had grown doubly sensitive of late, and his one 
idea had been that Lettice must be preserved from all 
danger of annoyance, whether by the abandoned woman 
who had so amply proved the shrewdness of her malice, or 
by himself — who had no less amply proved his weakness. 
In pure generosity of mind, he would have contented him- 
.self with a few grave words, and passed on. But it seemed 
to her as if he had not the courage to remain, taking for 
granted her resentment at his unfortunate letter. To her 
pure mind there was not enough, even in that letter, to 
cause complete estrangement between them. At any rate, 
it was not in her to impose the estrangement by any dis- 
play of anger or unkindness. The sublime courage of inno- 
cence was upon her as she spoke. 

“ See,” she said, “ the professor is going to begin. The 
people are taking their seats, and if we do not follow their 
example all the chairs will be filled, and we shall have to 
stand for an hoir-. Let us sit down.” 

She just glanced at Alan, so that he could regard him- 
self as included in the invitation ; and, nothing loth, he sat 
down beside her. The lecturer did not start for another 
ten minutes, and Lettice occupied the interval by compar- 
ing notes with Clara Graham ; for these two dearly loved 
a gossip in which they could dissect the characters of the 
men they knew, and the appearance of the women they did 


atame and fame. 


141 


not know. It was a perfectly harmless practice as indulged 
in by them, for their criticism was not malicious. The men, 
after one or two commonplaces, relapsed into silence, and 
Alan was able to collect his thoughts, and at the same time 
to realize how much happiness the world might yet have 
in store for him, since this one woman, who knew the worst 
of him, did not think it necessary to keep him at a dis- 
tance. 

Then the professor began to speak. He was a small 
and feeble man, wheezy in his delivery, and, it must be 
confessed, rather confused in his ideas. He had been in- 
vited to make plain to an audience, presumably well read 
and instructed, the historical bearings of certain recent 
discoveries in Egypt ; and the task was somewhat difficult 
for him. There were seven theories, all more or less 
plausible, which had been started by as many learned 
Egyptologists; and this worthy old gentleman, though 
quite as competent to give an opinion, and stick to it, as 
any of the rest, was so modest and self-depieciatory that 
he would not go further than to state and advocate each 
theory in turn, praising its author, and defending him 
against the other six. After doing this, he was bold to 
confess that he did not altogether agree with any of the 
seven. He was on the point of launching his own hypo- 
thesis, which would have been incompatible with all the 
rest, when his heart failed him. He therefore ended by 
inviting discussion, and sat down, blushing unseen beneath 
his yellow skin, exactly as he used to blush half a century 
ago when he was called up to construe a piece of Homer. 

Three of the seven Egyptologists were present, and they 
now rose, one after another, beginning with the oldest. 
Each of them stated his own theory, showing much defer- 
ence to the lecturer as ‘‘ the greatest living authority ” on 
this particular subject ; and then, after politely referring to 
the opinions of the two rival savants whom he saw in the 
audience, became humorous and sarcastic at the expense 
of the absent four. 

But, as the absent are always wrong in comparison with 
the present, so youth is always wrong in comparison with 
age. The youngest Egyptologist — being in truth a some- 
what bumptious man, fresh from Oxford by way of Cairo 
and Alexandria — had presumed to make a little feint of 
sword-play with one of the lecturer’s diffident remarks. 


142 


J\rAM£ AND FAME, 


This brought up the other two who had already spoken ; 
and they withered that young man with infinite satisfaction 
to themselves and the male part of the audience. 

The victim, however, was not young and Oxford-bred 
for nothing. He rose to deprecate their wrath. He was 
not, he said, contesting the opinion of the lecturer, whose 
decision on any detail of the matter under consideration he 
would take as absolutely final. But he pointed out that 
the opinion he had ventured to examine was expressed by 
his friend, Dr. A., in a paper read before the Diatribical 
Society, six weeks before, and it was manifestly at variance 
with the canon laid down by his friend, Dr. B., as a fun- 
damental test of knowledge and common -sense in the 
domain of Egyptology. 

Thus discord was sown between Dr. A. and Dr. B., and 
the seed instantly sprang up, and put an end to all that 
was useful or amicable in that evening’s discussion. 

Yet everyone agreed that it had been a most interesting 
conference, and the audience dispersed in high good 
humor. 

It took nearly a quarter of an hour to clear the crowded 
rooms, and as Alan had offered his arm to Lettice, in order 
to guide her through the crush, he had an opportunity of 
speaking to her, which he turned to good account. 

“ I am glad to see that your brother is in Parliament,” 
he said. 

“ Yes ; of course we were pleased.” 

“ He will make his mark — has made it already, indeed. 
He is very eloquent ; I have heard him speak more than 
once. He is a most skillful advocate j if I were ever in 
trouble I would rather have him on my side than against 
me.” 

He was speaking lightly, thinking it must please her to 
hear her brother praised. But she did not answer his last 
remark. 

“ I hope Mrs. Campion is well? ” 

“ Not very well, unfortunately. I am afraid she grows 
much weaker, and her sight is beginning to fail.” 

“ That must be very trying. I know what that means 
to an old lady who has not many ways of occupying her- 
self. I was making the same observation at home this 
morning.” 

“ With regard to your mother ? ” 


NAME AND FAME, 


143 


“ Oh, no. My mother died when I was little more than 
a boy. But I have an aunt living with me, who must be 
nearly seventy years old, and she was telling me to-day 
that she could scarcely see to read.” 

“ Oh,” said Lettice, with a rush of blood to her face, 
“is Mrs. Bundlecombe your aunt?” 

“ Yes,” he said, looking rather surprised, “ you spoke as 
if you knew her. Did you ever see Mrs. Bundlecombe ? ” 

“ I — I had heard her name.” 

“ At Angleford ? Or Thorley ? ” 

“ Of course, I heard of Mr. Bundlecombe there.” 

“ Is it not strange,” Alan said, after a short pause, “ that 
I never knew you came from Angleford until that morning 
when I brought you one of your father’s books ? Then I 
asked my aunt all about you. I was never at Angleford 
in my life, and if I had heard the rector’s name as a boy I 
did not recollect it.” 

“ Yes, it is strange. One is too quick at coming to con- 
clusions. I have to beg your pardon, Mr. Walcott, for I 
really did think that — that Mrs. Bundlecombe was your 
mother, and that ” 

“ That I was not going under my own name? That I 
was the son of a bookseller, and ashamed of it ? ” 

He could not help showing a trace of bitterness in his 
tone. At any rate, she thought there was bitterness. She 
looked at him humbly — for Letiice was destitute of the 
pride which smaller natures use in self defence when they 
are proved to be in the wrong — and said. 

Yes, I am afraid I thought saat the moment.” 

“At what moment? ” 

“ Do not ask me ! I am very sorry.” 

“And glad to find that you were mistaken? ” 

“ I am very glad.” 

He tried to meet her eyes, but she did not look at him 
again. 

“ It was my own fault,” he said. “ I was going to men- 
tion my connection with your father’s bookseller that 
morning ; but— you know — my feelings ran away with me. 
I told you things more to my discredit, did I not ? ” 

“ I remember nothing to your discredit. Certainly what 
you have told me now is not to your discredit.” 

“ If you had met my aunt in London, of course you 
would have known. But she does not visit or entertain 
anyone. You knew she was in London? ” 


144 


NAME AND FAME, 


“ Yes.” 

“ But you never saw her? ” 

Yes, once.” 

“ Oh, I did not know that. When ? ” 

“ A long time ago. It was quite a casual and unimpor- 
tant meeting. Oh, Mr. Walcott, who is that terrible 
woman ? ” 

They were out of the building by this time, standing on 
the pavement. Graham had called a cab, and whilst they 
were waiting for it to draw up Lettice had become aware 
of a strikingly-dressed woman, with painted face and bold 
eyes, who was planting herself in front of them, and staring 
at her with a mocking laugh. 

Alan was horrified to see that it was his wife who stood 
before them, with the mad demoniac look in her eyes which 
he knew too well. 

“ Alan, my dear Alan,” she cried in a shrill voice, caus- 
ing everyone to look round at the group, “ tell her this 
terrible woman’s name ! Tell her that I am your wife, 
the wife that you have plunged into misery and starvation 


“ For heaven’s sake ! ” said Alan, turning to Graham, 
“ where is your cab ? Take them away quickly ! ” 

“ Tell her,” the virago screamed, “ that I am the woman 
whom you tried to murder, in order that you might be 
free ” 

Here the harangue was cut short by a policeman, who 
knew the orator very well by sight, and who deftly inter- 
posed his arm at the moment when Cora was reaching the 
climax of her rage. At the same instant the cab drew up, 
and Lettice was driven away with her friends, not, how- 
ever, before she had forced Alan to take her hand, and had 
wished him good-night. 

“ That must have been his wife,” said Clara, whose face 
was white, and who was trembling violently. 

“ Yes, confound her ! ” said her husband, much annoyed 
by what had happened. 

“ Could you not stay to see what happens ? You might 
be of some use to Mr. Walcott.” 

‘ What good can I do? I wish we had not met him. I 
have a horror of these scenes ; some people, apparently, 
take them more coolly.” 

He was out of temper with Lettice, first for sitting by 
Alan at the conversazione, and then for ostentatiously 


NAME AND FAME. 


145 

shaking hands with him on the pavement. Her instinct 
told her what he was thinking. 

“lam sorry it happened/’ she said ; “ but when a man 
is unfortunate one need not take the opportunity of punish- 
ing him. It was far worse for him than for us.” 

“ I don’t see that,” said Graham. “ And everyone has 
to bear his own troubles. Besides, why should a man with 
such a frightful infliction attach himself to ladies in a 
public place, and subject them to insult, without so much 
as warning them what they might expect to meet with ? ” 

“ Were you unwarned ? ” 

“ I was not thinking of myself. You were not warned.” 

“ I beg your pardon, I was.” 

“You knew his wife was alive — and — what she is? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ I must say I cannot understand it.” 

“ You would not have me kind to a man who, as you 
say, is frightfully afflicted ? It was for that very reason I 
thought we ought to be kind to him to-night.” 

“ My sense of duty does not lead me quite so far ; and 
I do not wish that Clara’s should, either ! ” 

“ I am sorry,” said Lettice, again. 

Then there was silence in the cab j but the undutiful 
Clara was squeezing her friend’s hand in the dark, whilst 
her lord and master fumed for five minutes in his corner. 
After that, he pulled the check-string. 

“ What are you going to do ? ” said Clara. 

“ Going back again,” he said. “ You women under- 
stand some things better than we do. All the same, I don’t 
know what would happen if you always let your hearts 
lead you, and if you had no men to look after you. I shall 
take a hansom and follow on.” 

He was too late, however, to do any good. The stream 
of life had swept over the place where Alan and his wife 
had met, as it sweeps over all the great city’s joys and 
sorrows, glories and disgrace, leaving not a vestige be- 
hind. 


10 


146 


yAM£ AND FAME, 


CHAPTER XVI. 

CONCEIVED IN SORROW. 

Two days later, as Lettice was hard at work in her study 
on a romance which she had begun in June, at the sugges- 
tion of a friendly publisher, she was interrupted by a knock 
at the door. It was a feeble knock, as of one who was 
half afraid, and the voice, which she heard inquiring for 
her immediately afterwards was a feeble voice, which she 
did not recognize. 

Nor did she at first remember the face of Mrs. Bundle- 
combe, when that lady was brought into her room, so much 
had she changed since her last visit to Maple Cottage. 
She looked ten years older than when she transferred to 
her pocket the twenty pounds which Lettice had paid her, 
though that was barely twelve months ago. 

Lettice was better pleased to see her this time ; but 
there was a sinking at her heart as she thought from whom 
the old lady had come, and wondered what her coming 
might mean. 

Mrs Bundlecombe produced from her bag a little roll of 
paper, and laid it on the table with trembling hands. 

“ There, Miss Campion,” she said, taking the chair which 
Lettice had put for her, “ now I feel belter already, and I 
can answer your kind inquiries. I cannot say that I am 
very well, but there is nothing you can do for me, except 
take the money back that I came and asked you for a year 
ago. Don’t say anything against it, my dear, for my Alan 
says it must be done, and there is no use in trying to turn 
him. It is the right method for peace of conscience, as 
the good Mr. Baxter said, and that must be my apology, 
though I am sure you will not think it was nothing but 
sinful self-seeking that made me come to you before.” 

“ I don’t understand, Mrs. Bundlecombe ! I simply paid 
you a debt, did I not? If it was right for my father to pay 
(as he would have done if be had lived), it was right for 


NAME AND FAME 


147 


me to pay ; and as it was right for me to pay, it was right 
for you to ask. And it gave me pleasure, as I told you at 
the time, so that I object to taking the money back again.” 

“ That is what I said to Alan, but he would not listen 
to me. ‘ Miss Campion was not bound to pay her father’s 
debt,’ he said, ‘ any more than Mr. Campion, and there- 
fore it was wrong for you to ask either of them. But to 
go to a woman,’ he said, ‘ was more than wrong, it was 
mean ; and I can never look in her face again if you do 
not take it back and beg her pardon.’ He can be very 
stern, my dear, when he is not pleased, and just now I 
could not disobey him if he was to tell me to go on my 
knees through London town.” 

“ How did he know that I had paid you ? ” 

“ Well, it was yesterday ; we had been in great trouble ” 
— and here Mrs. Bundlecombe broke down, having been 
very near doing it froni the moment when she entered the 
room. Lettice comforted her as well as she could, and 
made her drink a glass of wine ; and so she gradually re- 
covered her voice. 

“ Well, as I was saying, my dear, in the evening, when 
we were quiet by ourselves, he said to me, ‘ Aunt Bessy, 
I met Miss Campion last night, and I gather from what she 
told me that you had seen one another in London. You 
never mentioned that to me. When was it ? ’ I did not 
want to make a clean breast of it, but he has such a way 
of cross-questioning one that I could not keep it back ; and 
that is how it all came out. So you must put up with it, 
for my sake. I dare not touch the money again, was it 
ever so.” 

“Then I must speak to Mr. Walcott about it myself, the 
next time I see him, for I think he has not been just to 
you.” 

“ Oh yes, my dear, he has ! He is always so just, poor 
boy ! ” There was an ominous quaver here. “ And it is 
not as if we wanted money. I had three or four hundred 
from selling the business, and Alan has nearly that every 
year — but now he gives two pounds a week ” 

Then there was another collapse, and Lettice thought it 
best to let the old woman have her cry out. Only she went 
over and sat by her side, and took one of the thin hands 
between her own, and cried just a little to keep her com- 
pany. 


148 


NAME AND FAME. 


“ Oh, my dear,” said Mrs. Biindlecombe at last, “it is 
such a comfort to have a woman to talk to. I have not 
had a good talk to one of my own sex since I came up to 
London, unless it is the landlady in Montagu Place, and 
she is a poor old antiquity like myself, with none of your 
soft and gentle ways. It would do me good to tell you all 
we have gone through since that bad creature found us out, 
but I have no right to make you miserable with other peo- 
ple’s sorrows. No — I will go away before I begin to be 
foolish again ; and my boy will be waiting for me.” 

“ If you think Mr. Walcott would not object to your tell- 
ing me, and if it will be any relief to you, do ! Indeed, I 
think I would rather hear it.” 

So Mrs. Biindlecombe poured out her tale to sympathe- 
tic ears, and gave Lettice an account of Alan’s married life 
so far as she knew it, and of the return of the runaway, 
and of the compact which Alan had' made with her, and of 
the postcards, and the slandering and the threats. 

“ And the night before last he came home in a terrible 
rage — that would be after seeing you, my dearie — and he 
walked about the room for ever so long before he would 
teW me a word. And then he said, 

“ ‘ I have seen her again. Aunt Bessy, and she has mol- 
ested me horribly out in the street, when I was with ’ 

“ And there he stopped short, and fell on the sofa, and 
cried — yes, dear, he cried like a woman, as if his heart 
would break ; and I guessed why it was, though he did not 
mention your name. For you know,” said Mrs. Bundle- 
combe, looking at Lettice with mournful eyes, “ or leastways 

you don’t know, how he worships the ground ” 

“ Don’t,” said Lettice, “ don’t tell me more than he 
would like. I — I cannot bear to hear it all ! ” 

“ Maybe I have said too much ; but you must forgive 
me if I have. And so, when he was a bit better he said 
that he should go next morning and tell the lawyer that 
she had broken her compact, and he would not pay her 
any more money, but give her notice of the divorce. 

“ ‘ All the heart and all the mercy is crushed out of me,’ 
he said ; ‘ she has turned her venom on her^ and she 
shall suffer for it.’ 

“ So in the morning he went to his lawyer. And it was 
the day when she used to call for her money, and she must 
have called for it and been refused, for early in the after- 


NAME AND FAME. 


149 


noon she came round to our lodgings, and went on like a 
mad woman in the street, shrieking and howling, and say- 
ing the most horrible things you can imagine. I could not 
tell you half she said, about — about us all. Oh djar, oh 
dear ! I had heard what one of those Frenchwomen could 
be, but I never saw anything like it before, and 1 hope I 
never may again ! ” 

“ Was he there ? ” 

“ Yes, he was there. And he said tome, ‘ If I give her 
in charge, it will have to go into the police court, and any- 
thing is better than that ! ’ But then she mentioned — she 
began to say other things, and he said, ‘ My God, if this is 
not stopped, I shall do her an injury!’ So I went out, 
and fetched a policeman, and that put an end to it for the 
time. 

“ You can fancy that my poor Alan is nearly out of his 
mind, not knowing what she may be up to next. One thing 
he is afraid of more than anything : and to be sure I don’t 
think he cares for anything else. Ever since I let out your 
name on that first night he has been dreading what might 
happen to you through her spite and malice ! ” 

Lettice was deeply moved by Mrs. Bundlecombe’s story, 
and as the old woman finished she kissed her on the 
cheek. 

“ Tell him,” she said, “ that I have heard what he has 
suffered — that I asked you, and you told me. Tell him 
not to think of me because T am forewarned, and am not 
afraid of anything she can do. And tell him that he should 
not think of punishing her, for the punishment she has 
brought upon herself is enough.” 

“ I will repeat it word for word, my dearie, and it will 
comfort him to have a message from you. But I doubt he 
will not spare her now, for she is more than flesh and 
blood can bear.” 

Then Lettice took her visitor to her mother’s room, and 
made tea for her, and left the two to compare notes with 
each other for half an hour. Thus Mrs. Bundlecombe went 
away comforted, and took some comfort back with her to 
the dingy room in Alfred Place. 

It was hard for Lettice to turn to her work again, as 
though nothing had happened since she last laid down her 
pen. The story to which she had listened, and the pic- 
ture which it brought so vividly before her mind of the 


J\rAME AND FAME, 


150 

lonely, persecuted man who pined for her love when she 
had no right to give it, nor he to ask for it, compelled her 
to realize what she had hitherto fought away and kept in 
the background. She could no longer cheat herself with 
the assurance that her heart was in her own keeping, and 
that her feeling for Alan was one of mere womanly pity. 

She loved him ; and she would not go on lying to her 
own heart by sayirtg that she did not. 

Her character was not by any means perfect ; but, as 
with all of us, a mixture of good and ill — the evil and the 
good often springing out of the same inborn qualities of 
her nature. She had a keen sense of enjoyment in hearing 
and seeing new things, in broaching new ideas and enter- 
ing upon fresh fields of thought ; and her appetite in these 
respects was all the stronger for the gloom and seclusion 
in which the earlier years of her womanhood had been 
spent. She was lavish in generosity to her friends, and 
did not count the cost when she wanted to be kind. But 
as the desire for enjoyment may be carried to the length of 
self-indulgence, so there is often a selfishness in giving and 
a recklessness in being over kind. Lettice, moreover, was 
extravagant in the further sense that she did not look 
much beyond the present month or present year of ex- 
istence. She thought her sun would always shine. 

Her blemishes were quite compatible with her virtues, 
with the general right-mindedness and brave performance 
of duty which had hitherto marked her life. She was nei- 
ther bad nor perhaps very good, but just such a woman as 
Nature selects to be the instrument of her most mysterious 
workings. 

If Lettice admitted to herself the defeat which she had 
sustained in one quarter, she was all the less disposed to 
accept a check elsewhere. Her will to resist a hopeless 
love was broken down, but that only increased the strength 
of her determination to conceal the weakness from every 
eye, to continue the struggle of life as though there were 
no flaw in her armor, and to work indefatigably for the 
independence of thought and feeling and action which she 
valued above all other possessions. 

So she chained herself to her desk, and finished her ro- 
mance, which in its later chapters gained intensity ol 
pathos and dramatic insight from the constant immolation 
of her own heart as she imagined the martyrdoms and 
sacrifices of others. 


atame and fame. 


I5I 

The story which was to make her famous had been con- 
ceived in sorrow, and it became associated with the greatest 
sufferings of her life. She had scarcely sent it off to the 
publisher, in the month of October, when her mother, who 
had been gradually failing both in body and in mind, quiet- 
ly passed away in her sleep. No death could have been 
easier. The heart had done its work, and ceased to beat : 
but though Lettice was spared the grief which she would 
have felt if her mother had lingered long on a painful 
death-bed, the shock was still very severe. Fora time she 
was entirely prostrated by it. The manifold strain upon 
her mind had tried her too much, and for several weeks 
after the funeral Clara Graham was nursing her through a 
dangerous illness. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

“TO THY CHAMBER WINDOW, SWEET I 

The message which had been sent by Lettice to Alan, 
by the mouth of Mrs. Bimdlecombe, had not lost much in 
its transit. 

“ Tell him,” she had said, “ that I have heard what he 
has suffered. Tell him not to trouble for me because I am 
forewarned, and am not afraid of anything she can do. 
And tell him that he should not think of punishing her, for 
the punishment she has brought on herself is enough.” 

It had consoled him greatly to have this assurance of 
her sympathy. He did not presume too far on the mere 
fact of her having sent him a message, and the words them- 
selves did not amount to very much. But if she had cared 
nothing at all, slie would have said nothing at all ; and 
perhaps the description which his aunt gave him of Lettice’s 
kindness to her, and of her interest in the story which she 
had heard, did more to appease his heart than anything 
else. 

It was his full intention to do all that was possible to 
deliver himself from the bondage of his unhappy marriage, 
and in the meantime he would take every precaution to 
prevent Lettice from being annoyed by this termagant of a 
woman. But he rejoiced to think that Lettice herself was 


152 


NAME AND FAME. 


in some manner prepared for what might happen to her, 
and was on her guard against the danger. 

There was a certain sweetness in the thought that they 
shared this danger between them, that his enemy was hers 
also, and that she had voluntarily ranged herself by his 
side. A feeling of satisfaction flashed through his mind at 
this community of interests with the woman whom he 
loved, but it was merged at once in the conviction that he 
could not be content for one single moment to leave her 
exposed to the possibility of insult from Cora. 

She had commanded him not to punish his wife. It was 
very difficult for him to obey. This bitterness against the 
degraded wretch was roused to its highest pitch by her last 
outbreak. If she would only die out of his life — die in any 
sense, so that he might hear and see her no more — he 
would not ask for her punishment. If she would cease to 
be his wife, and enable him to stand beside the pure and 
steadfast woman whose gentle influence had transformed his 
soul, he would forgive her. There was no way in which 
this could be done except by exposing her before the 
world, and depriving her of all right to look to him for 
support, and in the doing of this he knew full well tliere 
would be no room for weak pity and misgiving. 

He could not forgive her if that was to mean that he 
should keep her as his wife, and go on trying to buy her 
silence. He did not want to inflict pain upon her out of 
mere resentment, and if he could have his way in the 
matter of the divorce he was quite willing that she should 
have some of his money. He would be so rich without her 
that he would gladly go out into the street then and there, 
stripped of everything that he possessed, if in that way he 
could shake off the galling fetters that weighed upon him. 

To-morrow he would tell his lawyer that she was to have 
her weekly money again, on condition of her solemnly 
renewing her engagement not to molest him in any way, 
and not to interfere with any of his friends. She would 
probably regard the offer as a sign of weakness, but at any 
rate it would put her on her good behavior for a time. 
He would do this for Lettice’s sake, if not for his own. 

He knew with whom he had to deal, and of what this 
raving woman was capable. If she had been English, or 
German, and had gone utterly to the bad, she might by 
this time have been lethargically besotted, and would have 


J^AME AND FAME.~ 


*53 


given him very little trouble so long as she received her 
two pounds a week. But Cora was Latin, and belonged 
to the same race as the poet who drew the harpies, and 
the Gorgons, and mad Dido, and frenzied Camilla, who 
had painted in a hundred forms the unrestrained fury of 
his countrywomen, when the grace and tenderness of their 
sex had deserted them. She also was besotted^t times, 
but whenever she was not besotted her mind was full of 
vivacity, and her anger was as a whirlwind, and neither 
fear nor prudence could hold her in check. Alan knew 
her only too well, even before she had tried to kill him in 
France, and he had no doubt that the outbreak of the last 
few days was only the beginning of a persecution which she 
would maintain so long as she had the power to injure 
him. 

For himself he had already resolved what to do. Even his 
aunt must not be subject to these annoyances, and he bade 
her pack up her things and go to an old friend of hers in 
the country. He would leave his present lodging and get 
housed somewhere out of her reach. Why should he 
remain at her mercy, when it did not matter to any one 
where he lived, and when certainly no householder would 
endure a lodger who was liable to be visited by a mad- 
woman ? 

But Lettice ? How could she be defended from attack.? 
It was clear that Cora was jealous of her, or at all events 
maliciously set against her. It had required very little 
to produce that cTf ct. Heaven knew that Lettice -had 
done nothing to excite jealousy even in the mind of a 
blameless wife, entitled to the most punctilious respect and 
consideration of her husband. If only Lettice could be 
])laced in safety, carried away from London to some hapj^y 
haven where no enemy could follow and torment her, and 
where he might guard her goings and comings, he would 
be content to play the part of a watch-dog, if by that 
means he could be near her and serve her ! 

Something impelled him to get up and leave the house. 
It was dark by this time, and he wandered aimlessly 
through the streets ; but by and by, without any conscious 
intention, he found himself walking rapidly in the direction 
of Hammersmith. 

Eight o’clock had struck when he left his lodgings in 
Alfred Place, and it was after nine when he stood at the 


154 


I\rAM£ AND FAME, 


corner where the main-road passes by the entrance to 
Brook Green. He had never once looked behind him ; 
and, even if he had, he would scarcely have detected in the 
darkness the figure which dogged his steps with obstinate 
persistence. 

He hesitated for a minute or more at the corner, and 
then walked slowly round the Green. Opposite to Maple 
Cottage^iere was a large tree, and underneath it, barely 
visible from the pavement, a low wooden seat. Here he 
sat down, and watched the dimly-lighted windows. 

Why had he come there ? What was in his mind when 
he turned his face to Lettice’s cottage, and sat patiently 
looking out of the darkness ? He could not have answered 
the questions if they had been put to him. But he felt a 
sense of comfort in knowing that she was so near, and 
pleased himself with the thought that even for these few 
minutes he was guarding her from unseen dangers. 

He may have been sitting there for half-an-hour — a 
hundred images chasing each other through his disordered 
brain — when suddenly a blind in the cottage was drawn up. 
For a moment he saw the form of Lettice as she stood at 
the window, with a lamp in her hand, framed like a picture 
by the ivy which covered the wall. Then the shutters 
closed, and he was left alone in the darkness. 

Alone, as he thought : but he was not alone. 

He had started to his feet when her face appeared at the 
window, and stood with his arms extended, as though he 
would reach through space to touch her. Then, as she 
disappeared, he softly murmured her name. 

“ Lettice ! My Lettice ! ” 

A harsh laugh grated on his ears. It came from the 
other side of the tree, and Alan sprang in the direction of 
the sound. He need not have hastened, for his wife had 
no desire to conceal her presence. She was coming for- 
ward to meet him ; and there, in the middle of the Green, 
shrouded in almost complete darkness, the two stood face 
to face. 

“ Tiens, mon ami ; te voila ! ” 

She was in her mocking mood — certain to be quiet for a 
few minutes, as Alan told himself the moment he recognized 
her. What was she doing here ? He had thought that she 
did not know where Lettice lived ; how had she discovered 
the place ? It did not occur to him that his own folly had 


^rAMB AND FAME. 


155 


betrayed the secret ; on the contrary, he blessed the instinct 
which had brought him to the spot just when he was 
wanted. “ A spirit in my feet hath led me to thy chamber 
window, sweet ! ” All this passed through his mind in a 
couple of seconds. 

“ Yes, I am here. And you ! How came you here ? ” 

“ Nothing more simple. I came on my feet. But you 
walked quick, my dear j I could hardly keep up with you 
at times.” 

“ You followed me ! ” 

“ Yes, I followed you — all the way from Alfred Place. I 
wanted so much to know where she lived, and I said, ‘ He 
shall show me. He, who would not for worlds that I 
should know — he will be my sign-post.’ Pouf ! you men 
are stupid creatures. I must be cunning with you, my 
good husband who would leave me to starve — who would 
divorce me, and marry this woman, and cut the hated Cora 
out of your life. But no, my poor child, it shall not be. 
So long as we live, we two, Cora will never desert you. It 
is my only Consolation, that I shall be able to follow every 
step of your existence as I followed you to-night, without 
your knowing where I am, or at what moment I may stand 
before you.” 

“ Let us walk,” said Alan, “ and talk things over. 
Why stand here ? ” 

“ You are afraid that I shall make another scandal, and 
rouse the virtuous Lettice from her pillow, with the sound 
of her name screamed out in the night Ha, ha ! How 
the poor coward trembles ! Have no fear ! Twice in a 
week your brutal police have seized me, and I do not love 
their kind attentions. Now and then I may defy them, 
when I need an excitement of that kind ; but not to-night. 
To-night I mean to be clever, and show you how I can 
twist a cold-blooded Englishman round my finger. If you 
go, then I will scream — it is a woman’s bludgeon, my child, 
as her tongue is her dagger. Bah ! be quiet and listen to 
me. You shall not divorce me, for if you try I will accuse 
you of all sorts of things — basenesses that will blast your 
name for ever.” 

“ I am not afraid of you,” said Alan. “ For anything I 
know, you have a pistol under your cloak — shoot me. I 
took you to love and cherish, and you have made my life a 
hell. What good is it ? Shoot I " 


NAME AND FAME. 


156 

“ No ; that makes a noise. In Paris I would shoot you, 
for it is you who have destroyed my life. But in London 
you do not understand these things, so that I must act 
differently. Listen ! If you try to divorce me, and do not 
pay me my money, I have one or two little pistol-shots a 
i’anglaise which will suit you perfectly. Shall I tell you 
what I would say, to anyone who would listen to me — in 
court, in the street, anywhere ? ” 

“ As you please.” 

“ First, that you fired at me at Ciiloz, and that I can 
bring forward witnesses of the attempted assassination.” 

“ That is pure nonsense ; I am not to be frightened by 
such child’s play.” 

“Second, so far as the divorce is concerned, that what- 
ever my offence may have been, you have condoned it. Do 
you not understand, my friend? Did I not find shelter in 
your rooms in Montagu Place ? I would have a good 
lawyer, who would know how to make the most of that.” 

“ Have you nothing stronger to rely on ? ” 

“ Listen ; you shall tell me. My third pistol-shot is this 
— that you were wont to make private assignations with 
Miss Lettice Campion, and that you had been seen 
dropping, from her window, here in Brook Green, at 
midnight. What do you think of that, for example ? ” 

“ Vile wretch ! ” said Alan. “ Your malice has robbed 
you of your senses. Who would believe you ? ” 

“ Do not be a child. Are you English, and do you ask 
who would believe a woman telling these tales of a man ? 
Do you not know that men are ruined every day in 
England by the lies of women ? The better the man, the 
more abandoned the woman, the more incredible her lies, 
so much the more certain is his condemnation. Bah, you 
know it ! I should not hesitate about the lies, and, if I 
made them sufficiently repulsive, your noble countrymen 
would not hesitate to believe them. Do you doubt* it? 
What think you of my plan ? ” 

He made no answer ; he was trying to command him- 
self. 

“ Now, tell me ! Shall I have my money as usual? ” 

“ Before I left the house,” he said, “ I had resolved that 
the money ought to be paid to you. So long as you are 
my wife, you ought not to starve.” 

“ Good ! It is an annuity for life I ” 


J\rAME AND FAME, 


'57 

“No. I would give a hand or an eye to be free from 
you.” 

“ They would be useless to me, my dear. Would you 
give the fair fame of Lettice ? It will cost no less.” 

“ Let that pass ! ” 

“Yes, we will let that pass. Then, I receive my money 
as usual ? ” 

“ Go to Mr. Larmer to-morrow; he will pay it.” 

“ I hate this Mr. Larmer — he is an animal without 
manners. But no matter. I am glad you are reasonable, 
my friend. You buy a respite for a few weeks. I shall 
forget you with all my heart — until I have a migraine, and 
suddenly remember you again. But it is too cheap ; I 
cannot live decently on this paltry sum. Good-bye, my 
child — and gare aux migraines ! ” 

She was gone, and Alan was left alone. He had dug his 
nails into the palms of his hands, in the effort to restrain 
himself, until the blood came ; and long after the mocking 
fiend had departed he sat silent on the bench, half-stupe- 
fied with rage and despair. 

Was he really the coward that he felt himself, to listen 
to her shameless threats, and tremble at the thought of her 
machinations? Lettice had told him that she was not 
afraid ; but ought he not to be afraid for her, and do all 
that was possible to avert a danger from her which he 
would not fear on his own account ? 

Ah, if he could only take counsel with her, how wise and 
brave she would be ; how he would be encouraged by her 
advice and strengthened by her sympathy ! But he knew 
that it was impossible to call to his aid the woman whom 
it was his first duty to protect from annoyance. She 
should never know the torture he was enduring until it had 
came to an end, and he could tell it with his own lips as an 
indifferent story of the past. 


NAME AND FAME, 


158 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

A SLEEPY NOOK. 

Three miles from Angleford, on the other side of the river, 
and hidden away by trees on every side, sleeps the lazy 
little village of Biichmead. So lazy is the place — so undis- 
turbed have been its slumbers, from generation to genera- 
tion, that it might puzzle the most curious to think why a 
village should be built there at all. There is no ford 
through the river, and, though a leaky ferryboat makes 
occasional journeys from one side to the other, the path 
which leads to the bank is too precipitous for any horse to 
tread. The only route by which a cart can enter Birch- 
mead branches off from the-Dorminster Road, across a 
quarter of a mile of meadows ; and when the gate of the 
first meadow is closed, the village is completely shut in on 
every side. The world scarcely knows it, and it does not 
know the world — its life is “but a sleep and a forgetting.” 

The place has a history of its own, which can be told in 
a couple of sentences. Two hundred years ago, an 
eccentric member of the family to which the country-side 
belonged had chosen to set up here a little community on 
his own account, shaped on a model which, universally 
applied, would doubtless regenerate the world. He built, 
out of stone, a farmhouse and barns, and a score of cottages 
for his working-men, and there he spent his life and his 
money, nursing for some thirty years his dream of hard 
work and perfect satisfaction. Then he died, and a farmer 
without his faith and wealth succeeded him, and the hamlet 
lost its originality, and became as much like other hamlets 
as its love of sleep and pride of birth would allow. 

One thing saves it from desertion and extinction. It has 
a reputation, over half a county, for being one of the most 
healthy and life-prolonging spots in England. It certainly 
contains a remarkable number of old men and women, 
some of whom have come from the neighboring towns to 


NAME AND EAA^E. 


IS9 

end their lives in the weather-pix)of stone cottages and 
fertile allotments which remain at this day precisely as 
they were built and measured out by the philanthropic 
squire in the seventeenth century. Other cottages have 
been run up in the meantime, and a few villas of a more 
pretentious character ; but there is always a brisk com- 
petition for the substantial domiciles, as snug and sound 
as any almshouse, which encircle the village green of Birch- 
mead. 

In one of these cottages Mrs. Bundlecombe found a 
refuge when Alan sent her away from London. It was in 
the occupation of an old friend with whom she had been 
on intimate terms at Thorley — a widow like herself, blessed 
by Heaven with a perennial love of flowers and vegetables, 
and recognized by all her neighbors as the best gardener 
and neatest housewife in the community. With Mrs. 
Chigwin, Alan’s aunt was happier than she had ever hoped 
to be again, and the only drawback to her felicity was the 
thought of her nephew’s troubles and solitude. 

The next cottage to Mrs. Chigwin’s was inhabited by old 
Mrs. Harrington, the grandmother of Lettice’s first maid. 
There had been no love lost between Mrs. Bundlecombe 
and Mrs. Harrington, when they once lived in the same 
town. The grudge had arisen out of a very small matter. 
The bookseller’s wife had sold a Bible to Mrs. Harrington, 
in the absence of her husband, for twopence more than 
Mr. Bundlecombe had demanded for the same book, from 
some common acquaintance of both parties to the bargain, 
on the previous day ; and this common acquaintance 
having seen the book and depreciated it a few weeks later, 
the purchaser had an abiding sense of having been out- 
rageously duped and cheated. She had come to the shop 
and expressed herself to this effect, in no moderate terms ; 
and Mrs. Bundlecombe, whilst returning the twopence, had 
made some disparaging remarks on the other lady’s man- 
ners, meanness, dress, age, and general inferiority. The 
affront had never been quite forgotten on either side, and 
it was not without much ruffling of their mental plumage 
that the two old bodies found themselves established within 
a few yards of each other. 

The squire’s cottages at Birchmead were detached, but 
their ample gardens had only a low wall between them, so 
that the neighboring occupiers could not well avoid an oc- 


i6o 


JVAM£ AND FAME. 


casional display of their mutual disposition, whether good 
or bad. It was close upon winter when Mrs. Bundlecombe 
arrived in the village, and very wet weather, so that there 
was no immediate clashing of souls across the garden wall j 
but in November there came a series of fine warm days, 
when no one who had a garden could find any excuse for 
staying indoors. Accordingly, one morning Mrs. Chigwin, 
who knew what was amiss between her friends, seeing Mrs. 
Harrington pacing the walk on the other side of the wall, 
determined to bring about a meeting, and, if possible, a 
reconciliation. 

“ Elizabeth, my dear, that gravel looks perfectly dry. 
You must come out in the sun, and see the last of my poor 
flowers.” 

“ Martha Chigwin,” said her visitor, with a solemn face ; 
“ do you see that woman ? ” 

Yes, I see her. What then ? ” 

“ I do not nurse wrath, my love, but I cannot abide 
her.” 

“Are not six years long enough to remember a little 
thing of that sort? Come along, Elizabeth ; you will find 
that she has grown quite civil and pleasant-spoken since 
you used to know her.” 

So they went out into the garden, and the two ancient 
foes sniffed and bridled at each other as they approached 
through the transparent screen of tall, yellow^ chrysanthe- 
mums which lined Mrs. Chigwin’s side of the wall. 

“ Mrs. Harrington,” said the peacemaker, “ there is no 
need for me to introduce you to my old friend, Elizabeth 
Bundlecombe, who has come to pay me a nice long visit. 
We shall be her neighbors and close friends, I hope, and if 
you will do me the favor to come in this afternoon and 
drink a cup of tea with us, we shall be very glad to see 
you.” 

“Thank you kindly, Mrs. Chigwin. Good-morning to 
you, Mrs. Bundlecombe. I hear you have been living in 
London, ma’am, quite grand, as the saying is ! ” 

“ No, Mrs. Harrington, not grand at all, ma’am. Don’t 
say so. I have known what trouble is since my poor dear 
husband died, and I shall never feel like being grand 
again.” 

“ Never again, ma’am ? Well, I am sure that Mrs. 
Bundlecombe knows how to bear her fortune, whether good 
or bad. Did you say never again, ma’am ? ” 


NAME AND FAME. 


i6i 


The old lady seemed to take this phrase as a kind of 
comprehensive and dignified apology for the past, which 
ought to be met in a conciliatory manner. 

“ Well, well, Mrs. Bundlecombe, bygones is bygones, and 
there’s no more to be said about it. Not but what principle 
is principle, be it twopence or twenty pounds.” 

“Allowance must be made, Mrs. Harrington, for the 
feelings of the moment.” 

“ On both sides, ma’am,” said Mrs. Harrington. 

“ Like reasonable parties,” said Mrs. Bundlecombe. 

Then they nodded at each other with much vigor, and 
shook hands across the top of the wall through the branches 
of the chrysanthemums. Thus vaguely, but with a clear 
understanding on the part of both combatants, peace was 
nwde, and good relations were established. Mrs. Chigwin 
was delighted at the easy way in which the difficulty had 
been overcome, and in the afternoon she treated her friends 
in such a genuinely hospitable and considerate fashion 
that they were soon perfectly at their ease. Indeed, the 
three old people became very intimate, and spent their 
Christmas together in peace and charity. 

Alan came over one day early in February to see his 
aunt, and make sure that she was as comfortable as she 
professed to be. It was a characteristic proceeding on his 
part. Mrs. Bundlecombe, as the reader may have observed, 
was not very poetic in her taste, and not so refined in 
manners as most of the women with whom Alan now asso- 
ciated. But he always thought of her as the sister of his 
mother, to whom he had been romantically attached ; and 
he had good reason, moreover, to appreciate her devotion 
to himself during the last year or so. He found her fairly 
happy, and said nothing which might disturb her peace of 
mind. Lettice Campion, he told her, had recovered from 
a serious illness, and had gone on the Continent for a few 
weeks with Mrs. Hartley. He was bent on obtaining a 
divorce, and expected the case to come on shortly. This 
he treated as a matter for unmixed rejoicing ; and he 
casually declared that he had not seen “ the Frenchwoman ” 
for eight or ten weeks ; which was true enough, but only 
because he was carefully keeping out of her way. And it 
was a poor equivocation, as the reader will presently see. 

So Mrs. Bimdlecome flattered herself that things were 


11 


i 62 


NAJl/JS AND FAME, 


going fairly well with her nephew, and she possessed her 
soul in patience. 

Now as Alan sat talking *to his aunt in Mrs. Chigwin's 
best room, looking out upon the garden on Mrs. Harring- 
ton’s side, he suddenly started, and stopped short in what 
he was saying. 

“ Why, Aunt Bessy, who on earth is living next door to 
you ? ” 

Mrs. Bundlecombe looked where he pointed, and was 
almost as much surprised as himself to see Lettice’s former 
maid, Milly, walking in the garden with all the airs and 
graces of a grand lady. She had on a fur cloak, and a 
little cap to match, and she looked so handsome and well- 
dressed that it would not have been surprising if Alan had 
not recognized her. But Milly’s pretty face, once seen, was 
not easily forgotten ; and, as she was associated with 
Lettice in Alan's mind, he had all the more reason for re- 
calling her features. 

“ That is the first I have seen of her in these parts,’” 
said Mrs. Bundlecombe. “ You remember that Miss Cam- 
pion had a Thorley girl at Maple Cottage, who left her five 
or six months ago ? ” 

“ I remember your telling me so — Milly, she used to be 
called ? ” 

“ Yes, Emily Harrington. That is the girl, without a 
doubt. Her grandmother lives over yonder ; but I never 
knew that she was expecting a visit from this fine lady. 
Only last week she was telling me that she had not heard 
from Milly for several months. There was a letter from 
her before Christmas, to say that she was married and 
traveling abroad.” 

Mrs. Bundlecombe shook her head dubiously from side 
to side, and continued the motion for some time. She was 
thinking how much money it would have taken to buy that 
sealskin cloak ; but, however far her doubts may have car- 
ried her, she did not give utterance to them in words. 

“ She is certainly very nice-looking,” said Alan. “ And 
she seems to be getting on in the world. Perhaps she has 
made a good marriage ; I should not at all wonder.” 

“ Well, it is charitable to hope so,” said Aunt Bessy, 
with an expression in her face that was anything but hope- 
ful. “ I can’t forgive her for leaving Miss Campion in 
such a hurry. I suppose she wanted to better herself, as 


J\rAJ/£ AND FAME, 163 

those minxes always say. As if anyone could be better off 
than living with her 

Alan turned round to the window again, and looked out. 
His aunt’s words touched a chord in his heart, which 
vibrated strongly. To live with her, in any capacity what- 
ever— assuredly that would be the highest attainable good. 
To draw from her gentle presence that bliss of absolute 
rest and ease which he had never known until he came to 
know her — to talk and listen without a shadow of reserve, 
forgetting self, unashamed of any inferiority which his mind 
might show in comparison with hers, unafraid of giving 
offense to that sweet and well-poised nature — to look upon 
her face, almost infantile in its ingenuous expression, yet 
with indomitable strength in the clear grey eyes which 
revealed the soul within — to live with her would indeed be 
perfect happiness ! 

And the more he felt this, the less hopeful he was of 
realizing his aspiration. She had been ill, at the point of 
death, and he could not be near her. He had inquired of 
lier progress at the Grahams’ house, but always in fear lest 
he should bring sorrow to her, or annoyance to them. The 
creature whom he had made his wife was never absent from 
his thoughts. In his most despondent moments he ceased 
to believe that he would ever be able to shake her off. 
She haunted him, asleep or awake, at his meals and at his 
books, in his quiet lodging or when he stole out for a soli- 
tary walk. He tried to persuade himself that he exagger- 
ated his trouble, and that there were plenty of men under 
similar circumstances who would not allow their peace of 
mind to be disturbed. But if he was weaker than others, 
that did not make his pain less bitter. He feared her, and 
dreaded the fulfilment of her threats ; yet not so much on 
his own account as because they were directed against Let- 
tice. 

It was no consolation to him to think thatthe law would 
punish her — that the police would remove her as a 
drunken brawler — that the courts could give him his 
divorce, or perhaps shut her up as a madwoman. What 
good would even a divorce be to him if she had slandered 
Lettice, blackened his character, alienated all whom he 
loved, and remained alive to be the curse and poison of his 
existence ? 

As he pondered these things in his lieart, the trouble 
which he had fought off when he came down into the 


164 


J\rAME AND FAME, 


country that morning returned upon him with renewed 
force. He had fled from town to escape from the agony of 
shame and disgust which she had once more inflicted on 
him, and he groaned aloud as he thought of what had hap- 
pened in the last few days. 

“ I think I must have a touch of the gout,” he said, turn- 
ing round to where his aunt was sitting, with a pleasant 
smile on his face. It catches me sometimes with such a 
sudden twinge that I cannot help crying out like that.” 

Aunt Bessy looked hard at him, and shook her head ; 
but she said nothing. 

Soon after that, Alan went away ; and he had not been 
gone half-an-hour, when there came a gentle rap at the cot- 
tage door. 

Mrs. Bundlecombe opened it at once, and found, as she 
had expected, that the visitor was none other than our old 
friend Milly. Aunt Bessy had had a few minutes to pre- 
pare herself for this scene, and was therefore able to com- 
port herself, as she imagined, with proper dignity. Affect- 
ing not to see the pretty hand which was held out to her, 
she started back, looked inquisitively into the other’s face, 
and then cried out, as she turned her head round upon her 
shoulders, “ Well, Martha 1 Martha Chigwin I Here is 
an old acquaintance come to see us. Emily Harrington, 
love, Mrs. Harrington’s grand-daughter, who went to live 
with Miss Campion in London. Well, you did surprise 
me ! ” she said in a more quiet voice. “ Come in and sit 
down, Emily Harrington ! ” 

“ Granny told me you were here,” said Milly, a little 
taken aback by this reception, ‘‘ so I thought I must come 
in and see how you were.” 

“ We are very well, thank you kindly, Milly. And how 
are you ? But there is no need to ask you, for you look a 
picture of health, and spirits, and — and good luck, Milly 
Harrington ! ” 

“ Oh yes, I am very well. You don’t know that I have 
been married since you saw me last. My name is Mrs. 
Beadon now.” 

She drew off her glove as she spoke, and let her long 
hand fall upon her lap, so that the old ladies might see her 
wedding-ring and keeper. 

“ Well, my dear,” said Mrs. Bundlecombe, in a mollified 
voice, if you are married to a good man, I am very glad, 


NAME AND FAME. 


I6s 

indeed. And I hope he is well to-do, and makes you 
happy. You are nicely dressed, Milly, but nice clothes are 
not everything, are they ? ” 

“ No, indeed, they are not. Oh, yes, Mr. Beadon is 
good to me in every way, so you need not trouble yourself 
on my account.” 

After that preliminary sparring, they became friendly 
enough. Milly was quite at her ease when her position as 
a wife was established, and she amused her hearers by a 
lively account of her recent fortunes and adventures — some 
of them, perhaps, slightly fictitious in character, others 
exaggerated and glorified. Her husband, she told them, 
was a great traveler, and was sometimes out of England 
for six months or a year at a time. He had just gone 
abroad again^ and she had taken the opportunity of coming 
to see her grandmother — and even of living with her for 
awhile, if she found Birchmead supportable. They were 
not rich, but Mr. Beadon allowed her quite enough to live 
comfortably upon. 

So she played the grand lady in the hamlet, to her own 
infinite satisfaction. But now and again she had business 
to transact in London, and then she would send to Thorley 
for a cab, and take the afternoon train to Liverpool Street, 
and return in about twenty-four hours, generally with some 
little present in her bag for her grandmother, or grand- 
mother’s friends. 

None the less did poor Milly find that time hung heavy 
on her hands. She had not yet clipped the wings of her 
ambition, and she still pined for a wider sphere in which to 
satisfy her vague and restless longings. However she 
might brave it out to others, she was very far from being 
hapj)y ; and now and then she took herself to task, and ad- 
mitted that all she had, and all she hoped for, would be 
but a small price to give if she could purchase once more 
the freedom of her girlhood. 


t66 


l^TAALE. AND FAME, 


CHAPTER XIX. 

SIR John’s gloxinias. 

Whatever may have been the intention of Nature when 
she produced Sir John Pynsent, there was no doubt as to 
his own conception of the part which he was fitted to play 
in the world. 

He considered himself, and indeed he was, above all 
things, a manipulator of men. His talents in this direction 
had been displayed at school and at college, and when he 
settled down to political life in London, and impulsively 
began to suggest, to persuade, to contrive, and to organize, 
everyone with whom he came in contact acknowledged a 
superior mind, or, at any rate, a more ingenious and fertile 
mind. He had refused to bind himself down to an office, 
as his friends wanted him to do, or to take part in the 
direction of a “ Central Association ” for dealing with men 
in the lump. It was absurd to think of tying Sir John to 
a place, or a routine, or a pledge of any kind. His art was 
to be ubiquitous ; he aspired to be the great permeator 
of the Conservative party ; and by sheer force of activity 
he soon became the best known and most popular of the 
younger generation of Tories. 

His triumphs as a manager of men were not confined to 
public life. He was one of a numerous family, and he 
managed them all. Every Pynsent deferred to Sir John’s 
opinion, not merely because he was the head of the house, 
but because he had assumed the command, and justified 
the assumption by his shrewdness and common-sense. 

The one person in the family who gave most anxiety 
was his half-sister, Anna. Sir John’s father had married 
a second time, when his son was a youth at Eton, and 
Anna, the fruit of this union, inherited, not only her 
mother’s jointure of twenty thousand pounds, but a consid- 
erable fortune from her mother’s elder brother, who had 
been a manufacturer in Vanebury. This fortune had been 


NAME AND FAME. 


167 


allowed to accumulate for the last eighteen years, as her 
father, and after him, her brother, had provided her with 
a home, and disdained to touch “ Nan's money.” Sir John 
was a very good brother to her, and it was even rumored 
that he had married early chiefly for the purpose of pro- 
viding Nan with an efficient chaperon. Whether this was 
true or not, he had certainly married a woman who suited 
him admirably; Lady Pynsent sympathized in all his 
tastes and ambitions, gave excellent dinner parties, and 
periodically brought a handsome boy into the world to 
inherit the family name and embarrass the family resources. 
At present there were five of these boys, but as the family 
resources were exceedingly large, and Sir John was a most 
affectionate parent, the advent of each had been hailed 
with increasing satisfaction. 

It was a great relief to Sir John’s mind to find that his 
wife and his sister were such good friends. He might be 
a manipulator of man, but he was not — he acknowledged 
to himself — always successful in his manipulation of 
women. If Selina had found Nan in the way, or if Nan 
had been jealous of Selina and Selina’s babies. Sir John 
felt that he would have been placed on the horns of a 
dilemma. But this had not been the case. Nan was in 
the schoolroom when Lady Pynsent first arrived at Cul- 
verley, and the child had been treated with kindness and 
discretion Nan repaid the kindness by an extravagant 
fondness for her little nephews, who treated her abomin- 
ably, and the discretion by an absolute surrender of her 
will to Lady Pynsent’s as far as her intercourse with the 
outer world was concerned. With her inner life, she con- 
sidered that Lady Pynsent had not much to do, and it was 
in its manifestation that Sir John observed the signs which 
made him anxious. 

Nan, he said to himself, was a handsome girl, and one 
whom many men were sure to admire. Also, she had 
sixty thousand pounds of her own, of which she would be 
absolute mistress when she was twenty-one. It was a sum 
which was sure to attract fortune-hunters ; and how could 
he tell whether Nan would not accept her first offer, and 
then stick to an unsuitable engagement with all the ob- 
stinacy which she was capable of displaying? Nan some- 
times made odd friends, and would not give them up at any- 
body’s bidding. How about the man she married ? She 


NAME AND FAME. 


1 68 

would have her own way in that matter — Sir John was 
sure of it — and, after refusing all the eligible young men 
within reach, would (he told his wife repeatedly) end by 
taking up with a crooked stick at last. 

‘‘ I don’t think she’ll do that,” said Lady Pynsent when 
her husband appealed in this way to her. “ Nan is very 
difficile. She is more likely to remain unmarried than 
marry an unsuitable man.” 

“ Unmarried ! ” Sir John threw up his hands. “ She 
must marry ! Why, if , she doesn’t marry, she is just the 
girl to take up a thousand fads — to make herself the laugh- 
ing-stock ot the county ! ” 

“ She will not do that ; she has too much good taste.” 

“ Good taste won’t avail her ! You know what her 
plans are already, to live in Vanebury as soon as she is 
twenty-one, and devote herself to the welfare of the work- 
ing-people ! Don’t you call that a fad ? Won’t she make 
a laughing stock of herself and of us too ? Why, it’s 
worse than Radicalism — its’s pure Socialism and Quixotry,” 
said poor Sir John, who was proud of his Toryism. 

His wife only shook her head, and said, drily, that she 
would not undertake to prophesy. 

“ Prophesy ? My dear Selina, I merely want you to 
exert common caution and foresight. There is but one 
thing to do with Anna. We must get her married as soon 
as ever we can, before she is twenty-one, if possible. She 
must marry a man on our own side, some years older than 
herself — a man of the world, who will look after her prop- 
erty and teach her common-sense — a man who can restrain 
her, and guide her, and make her happy. I would give a 
thousand pounds to find such a man.” 

But in his own heart the baronet believed that he had 
found him, for he thought of his friend, Sydney Campion. 

Campion had small private means, if any ; he knew that ; 
but then he seemed likely to be one of the foremost men of 
the day, and if he could achieve his present position at his 
age, what would he not be in ten years’ time ? Quite a 
match for Anna Pynsent, in spite of her beauty and her 
sixty thousand pounds. If Nan had been a little more 
commonplace, Sir John would have aspired higher for her. 
But there was a strain of “ quixotry,” as he called it, in 
her nature, which made him always uncertain as to her 
next action. And he felt that it would be a relief to him 


mUE AND FAME, 


169 


to have her safely married to a friend of his own, and one 
whom he could influence, if necessary, in the right direc- 
tion, like Sydney Campion. 

Campion was a handsome fellow, too, and popular. Sir 
John believed, with the ladies. It was all the more odd 
and unaccountable that Nan seemed to have taken a dis- 
like to him. She would not talk about his doings ; she 
would go out if she thought that he was likely to call. Sir 
John could not understand it. And Campion seemed shy 
of coming to the house in Eaton Square when the Pynsents 
returned to town ; he was pleasant enough with Sir John 
at the Club, but he did not appear to wish for much social 
intercourse with Sir John’s wife and sister. The worthy 
baronet would have been a little huffed, but for the pre- 
occupation of his mind with other matters, chiefly political. 

But this was in November and December ; and he 
knew that Campion’s mother had lately died, and that he 
was anxious about that clever sister of his, who had lately 
written a good novel, and then been ill, and had gone to 
Italy. There was that Walcott affair, too, which had 
lately come to Sir John’s ears, a very awkward affair for 
Campion to have his sister’s name mixed up in. Probably 
that was the reason why he was holding back. Very nice 
of Campion, very nice. And Sir John became doubly 
cordial in his manner, and pressed Sydney to dine with him 
next week. 

With some reluctance, Sydney accepted the invitation. 
He had been perilously near making a fool of himself with 
Miss Pynsent, and he knew that she had found it out. It 
was quite enough to make him feel angry and resentful, 
and to wish to avoid her. At the same time, he was con- 
scious of a feeling of regret that he had muddled matters so 
completely — for Miss Pynsent was a lovely girl, her violin- 
playing was delicious, she had sixty thousand pounds, and 
Sir John was his friend. 

Sydney lost himself for a moment in a reverie. 

“ Not very likely,” he said, waking up with a rather un- 
easy laugh. “ At the best of times, I should never have 
had much chance. There are a good many reasons against 
it now.” And it was with a slight shade upon his brow 
that he dismissed the matter from his mind and applied 
himself to business. 


T70 


JvAME AND FAME. 


He need not have trotibled himself. When he went 
to dine in Eaton Square, Miss Pynsent was absent. She 
had gone to spend the evening with a friend. Evidently, 
thought Sydney, with an odd feeling of discomfiture, 
because she wanted to avoid him. How ridiculous it was ! 
What a self-conscious little fool she must be to take offense 
at a compliment, even if is were rather obvious, and not 
in the best possible taste ! He began to feel angry with 
Miss Pynsent. It did not occur to him for some time that 
he was expending a great deal of unusual warmth and 
irritation on a very trifling matter. What were Miss P/n- 
sent and her opinions to him ? Other women admired 
him, if she did not; other women were ready enough to 
accept his flattery. But just because there was one thing 
out of his reach, one woman who showed a positive dis- 
taste for his society, Sydney, like the spoiled child of the 
world that he was, was possessed by a secret hankering for 
that one thing, for the good opinion of the woman wdio 
would have none of him. Vanity was chiefly to blame for 
this condition of things ; but Sidney’s vanity was a plant 
of very long and steady growth. 

He saw nothing more of the Pynsents, however, until 
February, when, on the day of the first drawing-room, he 
ran up against Sir John in Piccadilly. 

“ Come along,” said Sir John instantly, “ I want you to 
come to my wife’s. I’m late, and she won’t scold me if 
you are with me. I shall use you as a buffer.” 

Sydney laughed and shook his head. “Very sorry, too 
busy. I’m afraid,” he began. 

But Sir John would not be baffled. He had put his 
hand within Sydney’s arm and was walking him rapidly 
down Street. 

“ My dear fellow, we’ve not seen you for an age. You 
may just as well look in this afternoon. Nan’s been pre- 
sented to-day, and there’s a drawing-room lea going on — 
a function of adoration to the dresses, I believe. The 
women will take it as a personal compliment if you come 
and admire them.” 

Mentally, Sydney shrugged his shoulders. He had had 
enough of paying compliments to Miss Pynsent. But he saw 
that there was no help for it. Sir John would be offended 
if he did not go, and really he had no engagement. And 
he rather wondered how Miss Pynsent would look in Court 


JVAME AND FAME. 


171 

attire. She had worn a plain cotton and a flapping straw 
hat when he saw her last. 

Lady Pynsent’s drawing-room was crowded, but she 
greeted her husband and Mr. Campion with great cor- 
diality. She was wearing an elaborate costume of blue 
velvet and blush-rose satin, and bore an indescribable 
resemblance to a cockatoo. A dowager in black satin and 
two debutantes in white, who belonged to some, country 
place and were resting at Lady Pynsent’s house before 
going home in the evening, were also present ; but at first 
Sydney did not see Nan Pynsent. She had Entered a little 
morning-room, with two or three friends of her own age, 
who wanted to inspect her dress more narrowly and it 
was not until Sydney had been in the room for five or ten 
minutes that she reappeared. 

Was this stately and beautiful woman Nan Pynsent 
indeed? Sydney was not learned in the art of dress, or he 
might have appraised more exactly the effect produced by 
the exquisite lace, the soft white ostrich feathers, the milk- 
white pearls, that Nan was wearing on this memorable 
occasion. He was well accustomed by this time to the 
sight of pretty girls and pretty dresses ; but there was 
something in Miss Pynsent’s face and figure which struck 
him with a new and almost reluctant sort of admiration. 

He was looking at her, without knowing how intent his 
gaze had become, when she glanced round and caught his 
eye. She bowed and colored slightly ; then, after saying 
a word to Lady Pynsent, she came towards him. Sydney 
was uncomfortably conscious that her evident intention to 
speak to him made her a little nervous. 

She held out her long, slim hand, and favored him with 
the pleasantest of smiles. 

“ How do you do, Mr. Campion ? I have not met you 
for a long time, I think. How good of you to come to-day ! 
Lady Pynsent is so pleased.” 

There was nothing for Sydney to do but to respond in the 
same gracious strain ; but he was certainly more reserved 
than usual in his speech, and behaved with an almost 
exaggerated amount of respect and formality. After the 
first two or three sentences he noticed that her eyes began 
to look abstractedly away from him, and that she answered 
one of his remarks at random. And while he was wonder- 
ing, with some irritation, what this change might mean, 


J72 


J\/AM£ AND FAME. 


she drew back into a bow window, and motioned to him 
almost imperceptibly to follow her. A heavy window 
curtain half hid them from curious eyes, and a bank of 
flowers in the window gave them an ostensible pretext for 
their withdrawal. 

“ Look at John’s gloxinias,” said Nan. “ They came 
from Culverley, you know. Oh, Mr. Campion, I want to 
tell you — I’m sorry that I was so rude to you at Culverley 
last summer.” 

This proceeding was so undignifiea and so unexpected 
that Sydney was stricken dumb with amaze. 

“ Perhaps you have forgotten it,” said Nan, coloring 
hotly ; “ but I have not. It all came from you not knowing 
who I was, I suppose — Mrs. Murray told me that she 
believes you thought I was the governess ; and if I had 
been, how odd it must have seemed to you that I should 
talk about your duties to the Vanebury laborers ! You 
know I have some property there, and so ” 

“ Oh, it was perfectly natural, and I never thought of 
it again,” said Sydney lamely. Cut she went on unheed- 
ing— 

“ And then I felt vexed, and when you asked me for a 
flower — how innocently it was said ! — “ I know I banged 
the door in your face. Selina said I must have been very 
rude to you. And so I was.” 

But Selina had not meant that she should acknowledge 
her “rudeness” to Mr. Campion, nor had Nan told her 
of the bold admiration that she had read in Sydney’s 
eyes. 

“ Will you forgive me, Mr. Campion ? You are such a 
friend of John’s that I should not like to think I had 
offended you.” 

“ You never offended me. Miss Pynsent. In fact. Pm 
afraid — I— was very dense.” He really did not know what 
to say ; lyliss Pynsent’s naivete almost alarmed him. 

“ Then you are not angry with me? ” 

How lovely were the eyes that looked so pleadingly into 
his face ! Was she a coquette ? But he could only answer 
as in duty bound — 

“ Not angry in the very least. Miss Pynsent.” 

“ I am so glad. Because I want to talk to you about 
Vanebury one day. But I must, not stop now, for there 
are all these people to talk to, you know.” 


NAME AND FAME, 


173 


may ask you to forgive the stupidity of my mistake, 
then ? ” said Sydney quickly. 

“ It was not stupid : how could you know who I was ? 

There, John, I have been showing Mr. Campion your 

gloxinias. Don’t you think them lovely, Mr. Campion ? ” 

And she glided away with the sweetest smile, and 
Sydney, after a few words with Sir John, took his departure, 
with a feeling of mingled gratification and amusement 
which he found rather pleasant. So she had not thought 
him impertinent, after all? She did not seem to have 
noticed the compliment that he had tried to pay her, and 
which he now acknowledged to himself would have suited 
for Milly Harrington better than Sir John Pynsent’s sister. 
Was she really as childlike as she seemed, or was she a 
designing coquette ? 

The question was not a very important one, but it led 
Sydney to make a good many visits to Sir John’s house 
during the next few weeks, in order to determine the 
answer. Miss Pynsent’s character interested him, he 
said to himself ; and then she wanted to discuss the state 
of the working-classes in Vanebury. He did not care very 
much for the state of the working-classes, but he liked to 
hear her talk to him about them. It was a pity* that he 
sometimes forgot to listen to what she was saying; but 
the play of expression on her lovely face was so varied, 
the lights and shadows in her beautiful eyes succeeded 
each other so rapidly, that he was a little apt to look at 
her instead of attending to the subject that she had in 
hand. 

This was quite a new experience to Sydney, and for 
some time his mind was so much occupied by it that the 
season was half over before he actually faced the facts of 
the situation, and discovered that if he wanted to pluck 
this fair flower, and wear it as his own, Sir John Pynsent 
was not the man to say him nay. 



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BOOK IV. 


SORROW. 

“Wer nie sein Brod mit Thranen ass, 

Wer nie die kummervollen Nachte 
Auf seinen Bette weinend sass, 

Er kennt Euch nicht, ihr himmlische Michte t 


n 


Goethb, 




NAM£ AND FAME. 


177 


CHAPTER XX. 

I WAS THE MORE DECEIVED.” 

Milly Harrington bad passed two months at Birchmead, 
and her grandmother’s neighbors were beginning to specu- 
late on the probabilities of her staying over the summer. 

“Poor soul; it’s lonely for her,” Mrs. Chigwin said to 
her friend, Elizabeth. “ I do hope that Mr. Beadon, or 
whatever her husband’s name is, will come back before 
very long. She must be fretting for him, and fretting’s so 
bad for her.” 

“ You think there is a husband to come, do you ? ” asked 
Mrs. Bundlecombe, mysteriously. 

“ Why not, Bessy ? She says she’s married, and she 
wears a wedding-ring ; and her clothes is beautiful.” 

“ I’d like to see her marriage lines,” said Mrs. Bundle- 
combe. “ But, there ! maybe I’m hard on her, poor thing, 
which I ought not to be, seeing that I know what trouble 
is, and how strangely marriages do turn out sometimes. 
But if there is a husband in the case, it’s shameful the way 
he neglects her, never coming to see her, and going abroad 
on business, as she says, while she stays with her grand- 
mother ! ” 

“ She pays Mrs. Harrington,” remarked Mrs. Chigwin, 
reflectively, “and she always seems to have plenty of 
money ; but she do look sad and mournful now and then, 
and money’s not everything to those that want a little love.” 

As she concluded her moral observation, she started up, 
for a shadow darkened the open doorway : and on looking 
up, she saw that Milly herself was standing just outside. 
The girl’s beautiful face was pale and agitated ; and there 
were tears in her eyes. The old woman noticed that she 
was growing haggard, and that there were black lines 
beneath her eyes ; they exchanged significant looks, and 
then asked her to step in and sit down. 

“ You run about too much and fatigue yourself,” said 
Mrs. Chigwin. “ Now you sit there and look at my flowers, 

\Z 


178 


NAME AND FAME. 


how still they keep ; they wouldn’t be half so fine if I was 
always transplanting them. You want a good, quiet home 
for yourself : not to be moving about and staying with 
friends, however fond of you they may be.” 

Milly had sunk into the chair offered to her, with a look 
of extreme exhaustion and fatigue, but at Mrs. Chigwin’s 
words she sat up, and her eyes began to grow bright again. 

“ I think so myself, Mrs. Chigwin. I shall be glad to get 
back to my own nice quiet home again. As for looking 
tired, it is only because I have been packing up my things 
and getting ready to go. Mr. Beadon has written to me 
to join him in London, and I am going to start this very 
afternoon.” 

The rosy color came back into her face : she smiled 
triumphantly, but her lips quivered as she smiled. 

“ That’s right, my dear. I don’t approve of young hus- 
bands and wives living separate, unless there’s some very 
good cause for it,” said Mrs. Bundlecombe, thinking of her 
beloved Alan. “ It always gives occasion to the enemy, 
and I think you’re very wise to go back. Perhaps you had 
some little bit of a tiff or misunderstanding with Mr. 
Beadon ” 

“ Oh no,” said Milly. The color in her face was pain- 
fully hot now. “ Mr. Beadon is always very good and kind. 
But,” she continued, looking down and pushing her wed- 
ding-ring to and fro, “he is very busy indeed, and he is 
obliged to go abroad sometimes on business. He travels 
— I think he calls it — for a great London house. He is 
getting on very well, he says, in his own particular line.” 

“Ah, that is nice!” said Mrs. Chigwin, comfortably. 
“ And how glad you will be to see each other.” 

“ Oh, yes,” faltered Milly. There was a curiously 
pathetic look in her great blue eyes such as we sometimes 
see in those of a timid child. “ Yes — very glad.” 

“ And you’ll bring him down here to see your grand- 
mother, I suppose ? She’s not set eyes on him yet, has 
she ? And how nice it will be for you to come down now and 
then — especially when you have a family, my dear. Birch- 
mead being so healthy for children, and Mrs. Harrington 
such a good hand with babies ” 

Suddenly, and to Mrs. Chigwin’s infinite surprise, Milly 
burst into tears. The loud, uncontrolled sobs frightened 
the two old women for a moment ; then Mrs. Chigwin got 


NAME AND FAME. 


179 


up and fetched a glass of water, clicking her tongue against 
the roof of her mouth, and audibly expressing her fear that 
IMilly’s exertions had been “ too much for her.” But Mrs. 
Bundlccombe sat erect, with a look of something like dis- 
approval upon her comely old face. She had her own 
views concerning Milly and her good fortune ; and soft and 
kind-hearted by nature as she was, there were some things 
that Aunt Bessy never forgave. The wickedness of Alan’s 
wife had hardened her a little to youthful womankind. 

“ I’m better, thank you,” said Milly, checking her sobs 
at last, and beginning to laugh hysterically. “ I don’t 
know what made me give way so. I’m sure.” 

“ You’re tired, love,” said Mrs. Chigwin, sympathetically, 
“ and you’re not well, that’s easy to see. You must just 
take care of yourself, or you’ll be laid up. You tell your 
good husband that from me, who have had experience, 
though without a family myself.” 

Milly wiped the tears away, and rose from her chair. 

“ I’ll tell him,” she said. “ But — oh, there’s no need : 
he takes an awful lot of care of me, you’ve no idea ! Why, 
it was he that said I had better come to my grandmother 
while he was away : he knew that granny would take care 
of me ; and now, you see ” — with hasty triumph — “ he 
wants me home again ! ” 

She pocketed her handkerchief, and raised her head. 

‘‘ I thought you said he had been abroad?” said Mrs. 
Bundlecombe. 

“ Of course ’I did, because he has been abroad,” the 
girl said, laughing nervously. “But he’s in London now. 
Well, good-bye, Mrs. Chigwin ; good-bye, Mrs. Bundle- 
combe ; you’ll go in and comfort granny a bit when I’m. 
gone, won’t you ? She’s been fretting this morning about 
my going away.” 

“ Bless you, love,” said Mrs. Chigwin. “ I’ll go in every 
day if you think it will do her any good. And if you write 
to her, Milly, she’ll be pleased, I’m sure.” 

“ I will write,” said Milly, in rather a shame-faced way. 
“ I was so busy — or I’d have w’ritten oftener. Good-bye.” 

She looked at them wistfully, as if reluctant to take her 
leave ; and her expression so wrought upon Mrs. Chigwin’s 
feelings that she kissed the girl’s cheek affectionately. 

“ Good-bye, love,” she said ; “ you know where to find 
us when you want us, you know.” 


i8o JVAM£: AND FAME, 

Milly departed, and the two friends remained silent until 
her light figure had passed the window, and the click of the 
garden gate told them that she was well out of hearing. 
Then Mrs. Chigwin began, in rather a puzzled tone : 

“You weren’t very hearty with her, Elizabeth. You 
looked as if you had something against her.” 

“ Tve this against her,” said Mrs. Bundlecombe, smooth- 
ing down her black apron with dignity, “ that I Believe 
there’s something wrong about that marriage, and that if I 
were Mrs. Harrington I wouldn’t be satisfied until I’d seen 
her marriage lines.” 

“ Perhaps she has seen them,” said Mrs. Chigwin, the 
pacific. “ And we’ve nothing to go upon, Bessy, and I’m 
sure the idea would never have entered my head but for 
you.” 

“ Why did she burst out crying when you talked of her 
husband and children coming down here?” asked Mrs. 
Bundlecombe, acutely. “ It may be that she isn’t to blame ; 
but there’s something wrong somewhere. She’s hurried 
and flurried and worried.” 

And this was true. The summons which Milly had 
received was of the briefest and least intelligible character. 
It was in a handwriting that she knew well, and although 
it was unsigned she was tremulously ready and eager to 
obey it at once. “ Come back to your old lodgings at 
Hampstead,” the writer said. “ Do not stay any longer 
at Birchmead : I want you in London.” And that was 
almost all. 

Milly hovered all day long between alternations of wild 
hope and wild despair. If she had been accustomed to 
self-analysis, she herself might have been surprised to see 
how widely her present moods differed from those which 
had dominated her when she lived at Maple Cottage. She 
was then a vain, self-seeking little damsel, affectionate and 
uncorrupted, with an empty head, indeed, but an innocent 
heart. Now both self-seeking and vanity were being 
scourged out of her by force of the love which she had 
learnt to feel. She was little changed in manner, and an 
observer might have said that she was as childishly pleased 
as ever with a new gaud or a pretty toy ; but behind the 
self-sufficiency of her demeanor, and the frivolity of her 
tastes, there was something new — something more real and 
living than mere self-indulgence and conceit. The faculty 


J\rAME AND FAME, 


i8i 

of giving and spending herself for others had sprung into 
being with the first love she had known. For the man 
with whom she had gone away from Lettice’s house she was 
willing to lay down her life if he would but accept the gift. 
And when he seemed loath to accept it, Milly became con- 
scious oi A heart-sick shame and pain which had already 
often br6iight tears that were not unworthy to her pretty 
childislreyes. The strength of her own feelings frightened 
her sometimes : she did not know how to resist the surging 
tide of passion and longing and regret that rose and fell 
within her breast, as uncontrollable by her weak will as the 
waves by the Danish king of history. Poor Milly’s soul had 
been born within her, as a woman’s soul is often born 
through love, and the acquisition cost her nothing but pain 
as yet, although it might ultimately lead her to a higher 
life. 

She arrived at the lodgings in Hampstead which had 
formerly been hers, about five o’clock in the afternoon. 
The landlady received her cordially, saying that “ the 
gentleman had bespoke the rooms,” and Milly was taken 
at once into the sitting-room, which looked west, and was 
lighted by a flood of radiance from the setting sun. Milly 
sank down on a sofa, in hopeless fatigue. 

Did he say that he would be home to-night ? ’ ’she asked 
of the landlady. 

“ No, Mrs. Beadon, he didn’t ; but he said that he was 
very busy in the city and would write or send if he couldn’t 
come himself.” 

“ How was he looking ? ” ✓ 

Oh, very well, but a bit worried, I thought,” said Mrs. 
Capper. “ Now let me take your things, ma’am, and then 
I’ll bring up the tea : you don’t look as if your stay in the 
country had done you much good after all.” 

“Oh, I’m very well,” said Milly, unfastening her mantle 
and coloring with nervousness under the woman’s sharp 
eye. “ I daresay Mr. Beadon will come to-morrow, if he 
doesn’t come to-night.” 

But nobody came, although she sat up watching and 
waiting for many hours after Mrs. Capper had betaken her- 
self to her bed. What did this silence and absence mean ? 
Her heart contracted with a curious dread. She loved, 
but she had never believed herself capable of retaining 
love. 


i 82 


J\rAME AND FAME. 


About eleven o’clock next day, she was informed that a 
gentleman wanted to speak to her. “ A young-looking, 
fair gentleman, like a clerk,” said Mrs. Capper. “ Shall I 
show him up? It’s from your good ’usband, most likely, 
I should think.” 

Milly started from the chair by the window, where she 
had been sitting. “ Oh, show him up, at once, please.” 

With one hand on the table, and her delicate face flushed, 
she presented a picture of loveliness such as the man who 
entered did not often see. He even paused for a moment 
on the threshold as if too much amazed to enter, and his 
manner was somewhat uneasy as he bowed to her, with his 
eyes fixed in a rather furtive manner on her face. 

He was a man of thirty-five, although his smooth-shaven 
face and fair hair made him look younger than his years. 
It was a commonplace countenance, shrewd and intelligent 
enough, but not very attractive. There was a certain 
honesty in his eyes, however, which redeemed the plainness 
of his insignificant and irregular features. 

“ Mrs. Beadon, I think?” he said. “ My name’s John- 
son. I come from Mr. — Mr. Beadon with a message.” 

“ Yes ? ” said Milly, her hand upon her side. “ What is 
it, please ? Tell me quickly — is he coming to-day ? ” 

The man looked at her oddly. There was something like 
pity in his eyes. 

“ Not to-day, madam,” he replied. 

Milly sank down on her chair again and sighed deeply. 
The color left her cheeks. 

“ I have a communication to make, madam,” said the 
clerk, rather hesitatingly, “ which I am afraid may be a 
little painful, though not, Mr. Beadon tells me, unexpected 
by you. I hope that you will be prepared ” 

“ Go on,” said Milly, sharply. What is it ? Why 
have you come ? ” 

“ Mr. Beadon wishes you to understand, madam, that he 
is going abroad again very shortly. He advises you to 
inform the landlady of this fact, which will explain his ab- 
sence. But he also commissions me to put into your hands 
a sum for your present expenses, and to inform you that 
he will be quite willing to assist you at any time if you 
make application to him through me— at the address which 
I am to give you. Any personal application to himself 
will be disregarded.” 


JVAME AND FAME. 


183 

“ But, do you mean,” said Milly, her cheeks growing very 
white, that he is not coming — to say good-bye — before he 
goes abroad ? ” 

He thinks it better to spare you and himself an inter- 
vfew that might be unpleasant,” said Mr. Johnson. “You 
understand, I suppose — a — that Mr. Beadon— my princi- 
pal, that is — wishes to close his relations with you finally.” 

Milly started to her feet and drew herself to her full 
height. Her cheeks were blazing now, her eyes on fire. 
“ But I am /lis tvife ! ” she cried. 

Johnson looked at her for a moment in silent admiration. 
He had not liked the errand on which he was sent, and he 
liked it now less than ever. 

“ Pardon me, madam,” he said, in some embarrassment ; 
“ but Mr. Beadon is under the impression that you under- 
stand — that you have understood all along — that you were 
not legally in that position ” 

“ You mean,” she said, her whole form quivering in her 
excitement, “ that what he told me was false ? — that when 
he said that our declaration before witnesses that we were 
man and wife was a true marriage — you mean that that 
was a lie ? ” 

Johnson looked at the walls and the ceiling — anywhere 
but at poor Milly’s agonized face. 

“ It was not a marriage, madam,” he said, in a regretful 
tone. 

“Then he — he — deceived me — purposely? Oh, he is 
wicked ! he is base ! And I thought myself — I thought 
myself ” 

Her fingers clutched at the neck of her dress, as if to 
tear it open, and so relieve the swelling of her throat. 

“ Does he think that he can make it up to me with 
money? Oh, I’ll take nothing from him any more. Let 
him go if he will, and his money too — I shall die and be 
forgotten — I won’t live to bear the shame of it — the pain 
—the ” 

She did not finish her sentence. Her slight form was 
swaying to and fro, like a reed shaken by the wind ; her 
face had grown whiter and whiter as she went on : finally 
she flung up her arms and fell senseless to the floor. The 
end of all her hopes and fears — of all her joys and longing 
and desire, was worse to her than death. 

Johnson lifted her to the sofa, with a sort of awkward ten- 
derness, which perhaps he would not have liked to acknow- 


NAME AND FAME, 


184 

ledge to his master ; and then, before summoning Mrs. 
Capper, he thrust into Milly’s pocket the envelope contain- 
ing the banknotes and the address which he had brought 
with him. He knew that his master was “ doing the thing 
handsomely,’' as far as money was concerned, and he had 
no doubt but that the forsaken woman would see, when she 
had got over her first mad frenzy of despair, that she had 
better accept and use his gifts. So he stowed the envelope 
away in her pocket, so that it might not attract the curious 
eyes of prying servant or landlady. 

Tlien he called to Mrs. Capper, and gave her a brief 
explanation of Milly’s swoon. “ The lady’s a little over- 
come,” he said. “ Mr. Beadon has got to go abroad, and 
couldn’t find time to see her before he went.” 

“ Hard-heated brute ! ” said the landlady, as she chafed 
Milly’s hands, and held a smelling-bottle to her nose. 

“Oh, dear, no !” said Mr. Johnson, briskly. “Family 
ties must not stand in the way of business. I wish you 
good-day, and hope the lady will soon be better.” 

And he left the house rather hurriedly, for he had no 
desire to encounter the despairing appeal of Milly’s eyes 
when she recovered from her swoon. 

“ It is a little too bad to make me his messenger,” he 
said to himself. “ He may do his dirty work himself an- 
other time. I thought she was quite a different sort of 
person. Poor thing ! I wonder how he feels about her, or 
whether he feels anything at all.” 

He had an apportunily of putting his master’s equani- 
mity to the test when he made his report of the interview 
— a report which was made that very afternoon, in spite of 
his representations that Mr. Beadon had already gone 
abroad. 

“ Well, you saw her ? ” he was asked. 

“Yes, sir. I said what you desired, and gave her the 
money.” 

“ Any fuss ? ” 

“ She fainted — that was all,” said Johnson, grimly. 

“ But she kept the money ? ” 

“ She had no choice. I put it into her pocket while she 
was unconscious, and then summoned the landlady.” 

“ Ah, yes, that was right. And she understands ” 

“Everything that you wish her to understand,” said the 
clerk, with a touch of disrespect in his manner, which his 
employer noticed, and silently resented. 


NAME AND FAME. 185 

Well, it had to be done, and the sooner the better,” he 
said, turning away. 

“ So I suppose,” said Johnson. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

THE TONGUE OF SCANDAL. 

Alan returned to town with the full knowledge that he 
had something formidable to face and overcome. 

He had gone to Birchmead partly in redemption of an 
old promise to his aunt, not knowing when he might be 
able to keep it if he did not do so now, and partly because 
his mind had been distracted by a fresh outbreak of 
violence in his wife, and he found it absolutely impossible 
to sit still and endure in patience. 

The country journey refreshed him, and he came back 
stronger and braver than before. He was resolved to 
press for his divorce, and as Lettice was in Italy, no time 
could be better than the present for proving to the desper- 
ate woman, who was trying to terrify him, that there were 
laws in England to which she must yield obedience. He 
assured himself that he was now prepared for any fate ; 
and yet that which had happened before he left town was 
an earnest of what he had to expect. 

What had happened was this. 

A few days before Cora had been served with a notice 
to appear and defend the suit for divorce which her hus- 
band was bringing against her ; and this had set her inflam- 
mable soul on fire. She had tried hard to discover his 
whereabouts, without success. She had gone to Maple 
Cottage and banged at the door in such furious style, that 
a policeman, who happened to be passing, came up to see 
what was wrong, just as the new occupants made their 
appearance, in mingled alarm and indignation. 

“ I want Miss Campion,” said Cora, who was half- 
intoxicated, but still more excited by rage and jealousy. 

She no longer lives here,” said the man at the door. 

Where is she ? ” 

I don’t know. And I should not tell you if I did. 
Policeman, take this woman in charge for annoying me I 


i86 


JVAM£ AND FAME, 


You must have seen her knocking like a fury — and now 
she is evidently tipsy.” 

Her rage increased rather than diminished when she 
found that her intended prey had escaped her, she began 
to declaim at the top of her voice, and to shriek hysteric- 
ally ; and the policeman, regarding it as a simple case of 
“ drunk and disorderly,” took her off to the station, where 
she was locked up. 

The first that Alan heard of it was from the papers next 
morning. In one of these, which he was accustomed to 
read after breakfast, he found the following report : — 

“At Hammersmith, a dissipated-looking woman, who 
gave the name of Cora Walcott, was charged with being 
drunk and disorderly on the previous day, and annoying Mr. 
Peter Humphreys, of Maple Cottage, Brook Green. Ser- 
geant T 14 stated that he had observed the prisoner 
behaving in an extraordinary manner outside Mr. Hum- 
phreys’ house, and knocking at the door in a most violent 
manner. As she would not go away, and her conduct was 
a serious annoyance to the neighbors, he was compelled to 
take her into custody. In reply to the prisoner, the wit- 
ness said that she was undoubtedly drunk. She had asked 
for Miss Campion, and he had ascertained that that lady 
did previously live at Maple Cottage. She had told him 
that she was the wife of Mr. Alan Walcott, who had de- 
serted her, after making an attempt on her life. The 
magistrate here interposed, and said that the prisoner’s 
questions were totally irrelevant. What she had stated, 
even if true, was no excuse whatever for the conduct of 
which she had been guilty. Prisoner (excitedly) : ‘ This 
woman had taken my husband from me.’ Magistrate : ‘ Be 
silent.’ Prisoner : ‘ Am I to starve in the streets, whilst 
they are living in luxury ? ’ Magistrate : ‘ You are fined 
five shillings and costs. If you have grievances you must 
find another way of remedying them. If you say any more 
now, I shall have to send you to prison without the option 
of a fine.’ The money was paid by a gentleman in court.” 

As soon as Alan had read this he went to the solicitor 
who knew all his affairs, and got him to go to the Hammer- 
smith Police Court. The magistrate permitted him to 
make a statement contradicting the lies told by Cora, and 
the newspapers printed what he said. But how many 
persons read the first report who never saw the second ? 


J\rAM£ AND FAME. 


187 


And how many of those who read both preferred to believe 
the scandal, taking the contradiction as a matter of 
course ? 

The ‘‘ gentleman in court ” who paid Cora’s fine was an 
enterprising reporter, who thought it might be worth his 
while to hear what this deserted wife had to say. He 
knew two or three papers which would welcome a bit of 
copy dealing with the marital troubles of a well-known 
literary man. The story of this French wife might be a 
tissue of lies — in which case it would be a real advantage 
to Mr. Walcott and Miss Campion to have it printed and 
refuted. Or it might be partly or wholly true — in which 
case it was decidedly in the interest of the public to make it 
known. The argument is familiar to everyone connected 
with a popular newspaper, and it proves that sensational 
journalists have their distinct place in the cosmogony of 
nature, being bound to print what is scandalous, either for 
the sake of those who are libelled or out of simple justice 
to those who start and spread the libel. This desire to 
give fair play all round, even to slanderers and malefac- 
tors, and the common father of these, is the crown and 
apex of civilization. 

The consequence of this gentleman’s activity was that 
Cora found plenty of assistance in her malicious design, to 
take away the characters of Alan and Lettice. The 
charges which she brought against her husband were 
printed and commented on in some very respectable news- 
papers, and were repeated with all kinds of enlargement 
and embellishment wherever the retailers of gossip were 
gathered together. If Alan had been under a cloud before, 
he was now held up to scorn as a mean-spirited creature 
without heart or conscience, who had allowed his lawful 
wife to sink into an abyss of degradation. However bad , 
she might be, the blame certainly rested with him as the 
stronger. If it was impossible to live with her now, he 
might, at any rate, have stretched out his hand long ago, and 
rescued her from the slough of despond into which she 
had fallen. 

This was not, of course, the universal judgment; but it 
was the popular one. It might not even have been the 
popular judgment a year before, or a year after, but it was 
the judgment of the day. The multitude is without res- 
ponsibility in such cases, it decides without deliberation, 


i88 


J\rAM£: AND FAME. 


and it often mistakes its instincts for the dictates of equity. 
Alan was judged without being heard, or what he did say 
in his defence was received as though it were the mere 
hard-swearing of a desperate man. 

The storm had begun to rage when he went to Birch- 
mead, and it reached its height soon after he returned. 
His lawyer advised him to bring an action for libel against 
one paper which had committed itself more deeply than 
the rest, and the threat of this had the effect of checking 
public references to his case ; but the mischief was already 
done. Nothing could make him more disgusted and 
wretched than he had been for some time past, so far as his 
own interests were concerned. It was only the dragging 
of Lettice’s name into the miserable business which now 
pained and tormented him. 

But there was one who had more right than himself to 
come forward as the champion of Lettice’s fair fame, and 
was able to do it with better effect. When a man is a 
Member of Parliament and a Queen’s Counsel, he occu- 
pies a position which his fellow-countrymen are inclined to 
regard as one of very considerable dignity. Editors and 
sub-editors think twice before they print unsubstantiated 
rumors about the near relatives of such distinguished 
individuals as Mr. Sydney Campion, Q.C., M.P. Thus, 
after the first report of the proceedings at the police court, 
Lettice’s name scarcely appeared again. She was, indeed, 
referred to as “ the lady who seems, reasonably or unrea- 
sonably, to have excited the jealousy of the unfortunate 
wife,” or “ the third party in this lamentable case, also 
well-reputed in the world of letters, with whom the tongue 
of scandal has been busy ; ” but she was not mentioned 
by name. And therein the scandal-mongers exercised a 
.wise discretion, for Sydney had secured the assistance of 
Mr. Isaacs, one of the smartest solicitors in London, who 
found means to impress upon everyone whom it might 
concern that it would be a very serious matter indeed to 
utter anything approaching to a libel on Miss Lettice 
Campion. 

Moreover, the worthy Mr. Isaacs had an interview with 
Cora, whom he found in a sober mood, and so terrified 
her by his warnings and menaces, but most of all by the 
impressive manner and magnetic eye wherewith he was 
wont to overawe malefactors of every kind and degree, that 
she ceased for a time to speak evil of Lettice. 


J\rAM£ AND FAME, 


189 


Yet in Lettice’s case also the mischief had been done 
already. All who made a point of hearing and remember- 
ing the ill that is spoken of their fellow-creatures, knew 
what had been said of her, and retailed it in private for 
the amusement of their friends. The taint had spread 
from Alan to her, and her character suffered before the 
world for absolutely no fault of hers, but solely because 
she had the misfortune to know him. That was Sydney’s 
way of putting it — and, indeed, it was Alan’s way also, for 
there was no other conclusion at which it was possible to 
arrive. 

It was a great consolation for both these men that Let- 
tice was out of the country at this time. Sydney wrote to 
her, hinting as delicately as he could that it was essential 
to her interests and to his own that she should remain 
abroad for at least two or three months longer. Alan 
wrote about the same time to Mrs. Hartley, telling her in 
detail what had happened, and entreating her to put off 
her return to London as late as she could. It was not a 
time, he thought, to hesitate as to whether anything could 
justify him in making such a request. 

Mrs. Hartley was treating Lettice very well at Florence, 
and had no intention of letting her come back in a hurry. 
She did not see fit to tell her of Alan’s letter, for her re- 
covery had been very slow, and fresh mental worry 
appeared to be the last thing to which she ought to be sub- 
jected. Nor was Lettice made aware of anything con- 
nected with Alan and his troubles, although her companion 
heard yet more startling news within the next few weeks. 
Mrs. Hartley had come to be very fond of Lettice, and 
she guarded her Jealously, with all the tyranny of an old 
woman’s love for a young one. The first thing, in her 
mind, was to get rid of the nervous prostration from which 
Lettice had been suffering, and to restore her to health and 
strength. 

“ We shall not go back to London,” she said, in answer 
to a mild expostulation from her friend, “ until you are as 
well as ever you were. Why should we? You have no 
ties there, no house, no friends who cannot spare you for 
a month or two. By and by you can begin to write, if you 
must write; but we shall quarrel if you insist on going 
back. What makes you so restless ? ” 

“ I am idle ; and 1 hate to have nothing to do. Besides, 
how can one tell what is going on, so far away from all 


190 


NAME AND FAME. 


one’s friends and connections ? If one of your friends 
were in difficulties or danger, would you not wish to be 
near him (or her), and do what you could to help ? ” 

“Of whom are you thinking, dear?” Mrs. Hartley 
turned round on her quickly as she asked this question. 

“ I put it generally,” Lettice said, looking frankly at her 
friend, but feeling hot and troubled at the same time. 

“ Oh, it was a mere hypothesis ? ” 

“Well, no; it was not.” 

“ I am not questioning you, my darling. At least, I 
don’t want to. But you can do no good to anybody just 
now — believe me ! You must get quite well and strong, 
and then perhaps you can fight for yourself or for other 
people. I don’t dispute your title to fight, when and 
where and how you like; and if ever I am in trouble, the 
Lord send me such a champion ! But get strong first. If 
you went out with your shield this morning, you would 
come back upon it to-night.” 

So Lettice had to be patient yet awhile. 


CHAPTER XXIL 

LETTICE TRIUMPHS. 

But there was news of another kind which Mrs. Hartley 
did not conceal from Lettice. Her novel had been pub- 
lished, and it was a great success. The critics, who 
already knew something of her literary powers, had with 
one consent written long and special articles about “ Lau- 
rels and Thorns,” hailing it as a veritable triumph. It 
was original, and philosophic, and irresistibly pathetic ; 
the style sufficed to mark its author as one of the few 
novelists whose literary form was irreproachable. Perhaps 
the praise was here and there extravagant, but it was prac- 
tically universal. And it was not confined to the critics. 
The reading world more than endorsed it. Second and 
third editions of'the book were called for within a month. 
Writers of leading articles and speakers on public platforms 
began to quote and commend her. 

Most remarkable of all, her novel made a conquest of 
her brother Sydney. He did not care for novels as a rule, 


JV-AME AND FAME, 


X91 


but he read “ Laurels and Thorns,” and was desperately 
interested in it. Perhaps the phenomenal success which 
had crowned it had some effect upon him ; and Lady Pyn- 
sent wrote him a nice letter of congratulation, expressing a 
great desire to know his “ distmguished sister.” At all 
events, the thing was done, and Lettice must now be defi- 
nitely accepted as a writer of books. What chiefly puzzled 
him was to think where she had learned her wisdom, how 
she came to be witty without his knowing it, and whence 
proceeded that intimate acquaintance with the human 
heart of which the critics were talking. He had not been 
accustomed to take much account of his sister, in spite of 
her knack with the pen ; and even now he thought that 
she must have been exceedingly lucky. 

It will readily be supposed that the breath of scandal 
which had passed over Lettice was in no way a drawback 
to the triumph of her book. The more she was talked 
about in connection with that sorry business, the more her 
novel came to be in demand at the libraries, and thus she 
had some sort of compensation for the gross injustice which 
had been done to her. One small-minded critic, sitting 
down to his task with the preconceived idea that she was 
all that Cora Walcott had declared her to be, and finding 
in “ Laurels and Thorns ” the history of a woman who 
regarded the essence of virtue as somewhat more important 
than the outward semblance, attacked her vehemently for 
a moral obliquity which existed in his own vision alone. 
This review also stimulated the run upon her book, and 
carried it into a fourth edition. 

Lettice’s fortune was made. She had nothing to do for 
the remainder of her life but to choose where she would 
live, to take a house, to fill it with furniture, to gratify every 
reasonable want, on the one condition that she should 
devote herself to honest hard work, and give to her fellow- 
creatures the best that she was capable of producing. 

It was all that her ambition had ever led her to desire, 
and it came to her at a time of life when her enjoyment 
was likely to be most keen and complete. Unless her own 
hand put aside the cup, it was hers to drink and to be 
satisfied 

And what did Alan think of it.? She wondered dimly 
now and then if he had read it, and what he thought of the 
words that she had spoken out of a full heart to him and 


192 


J\rAAfE AND FAME. 


to him alone. Did he guess it ? And would he ever know ? 
She would have been answered if she could have seen him 
on a certain day in April, when she was in Florence and 
he in London town. 

Alan Walcott sat in his room, on the first floor of a house 
between the Strand and the River Thames, reading Lettice 
Campion’s book. He had read it once, from beginning to 
end, and now he was turning back to the passages which 
had moved him most deeply, anxious not to lose the light 
from a single facet of the gem that sparkled in his hands. It 
would have been a gem to Alan even if the world had not 
seen its beauty, and he was jealous of those who could 
lavish their praise on this woman whom he knew and 
worshipped, when his own hard fate compelled him to be 
silent. 

How well he recognized her thoughts and moods in every 
page of the story ! How familiar were many of the reflec- 
tions, and even the very words which she employed ! Here 
and there the dialogue recalled to his mind conversations 
which he had held with her in the happy days gone by. 
In one case, at least, he found that she had adopted a 
view of his own which he had maintained in argument 
against her, and which at the time she had not been willing 
to accept. It rejoiced him to see the mark of his influence, 
however slight, upon one who had so deeply impressed her 
image on his mind. 

The novel was a revelation to him in more ways than 
one. It was as if she had spoken to him, for himself alone, 
words of wisdom and comfort and encouragement. That, 
indeed, was precisely what she had done — consciously and 
of set purpose — though he did not know it. The plot went 
home to his heart. When the heroine spoke to the hero 
he seemed to catch the very tones of her voice, to see the 
lips in motion, and to read in her eyes the spirit and con- 
firmation of the words. There was nothing in the incidents 
of “ Laurels and Thorns ” which resembled his own troubles 
or the relations which had existed between them — except 
the simple fact of the mutual intellectual and moral sym- 
pathy of the two central characters. The hero had won his 
crown of laurels and wore his crown of thorns ; the 
heroine, who could not love him in his triumph, had loved 
him in his humiliation. 

Both descended in the scale of material prosperity to 
rise in the scale of honor and mutual respect ; the glory of 


NAME AND FAME. 


m 


life was extinguished, but it gave place to the glory of love. 
Alan read again and again the borrowed words with which 
Lettice’s heroine concluded her written confession of love 
for the man whom she had once rejected, and who thought 
himself precluded by his disgrace from coming to her 
again. 


“ He fixed thee mid this dance 
Of plastic circumstance, 

This Present, thou, forsooth, wouldst fain arrest; 

Machinery just meant 
To give thy soul its bent, 

Try thee, and turn thee forth, sufficiently impressed. 

‘‘ What though the earlier grooves 
That ran the laughing loves 

Around thy base no longer pause and press ? 

What though, about thy rim. 

Scull things in order grim 

Grow out, in graver mood, obey the sterner stress ? 

“ Look not thou down but up ! 

To uses of a cup, 

The festal board, lamp’s flash and trumpet’s peal. 

The new wine’s foaming flow. 

The Master’s lips a-glow ! 

Thou, heaven’s consummate cup, what needst thou with 
earth’s wheel ? ” 

These were words of comfort to Alan, if only he dare 
take them to himself, if he dare imagine that Lettice had 
had him in her mind as she wrote, and had sent him that 
message to restore his self-respect and save him from de- 
spair. 

He sat for some time with the book before him, and then 
another thought came into his head. Why should he not 
write to her, just a few words to let her know that what 
she had written had gone home to his heart, and that 
amongst all her critics there was not one who understood 
her better than he ? He was entitled to do this ; it was 
almost due to himself to do it. He would take care not to 
make a fool of himself this time, as he had done in his first 
letter to her. 

So he took a pen and wrote : 

“ I have read your book. You would not expect to find 
me amongst the critics : I only write to thank you for the 
pleasure and the courage it has given me. Some parts have 


194 


NAME AND FAME, 


fitted my case so exactly that I have applied them and 
made use of them, as any chance comer is permitted to do 
with any work of art. 

This is a great work you have produced, and I always 
knew that you would do great things. Count me not last 
of those who praise you, and who look to see your future 
triumphs. - Alan Walcott.” 

He put the letter in an envelope, sealed and addressed 
it. Then he leaned back in his chair, and began to muse 
again. 

What a failure his life had been ! He had told himself 
so a hundred times of late, but the truth of the verdict was 
more and more vivid every day. Surely he had set out 
from the beginning with good intentions, with high mo- 
tives, with an honorable ambition. No man ever had a 
more just father, a more devoted mother, a happier home, 
a more careful and conscientious training. He had never 
seen a flaw in either of his parents, and it had been his 
single purpose to imitate their devotion to duty, their piety, 
their gentle consideration for all with whom they had to 
deal. It had struck him sometimes as almost strange (he 
had suspected once that it was a trifle unpoetical) that he 
had rather sought out than shunned his humbler relatives 
in the little shop at Thorley, taking the utmost care that 
their feelings should never be hurt by his more refined 
education and tastes. Of these three friends of his youth 
who were dead he could honestly say (but he did not say 
all this), that he had been dutiful to them, and that he had 
not wilfully brought sorrow upon any one of them. 

Where had he gone so far astray as to merit, or even to 
bring about, the anguish which had fallen upon him? 
True, he had given himself to pleasure for the few years 
which succeeded his father’s death. He had traveled, he 
had enjoyed the society of men and women, he had lived an 
idle life — except inasmuch as he aspired to be a poet, and 
wrote two or three volumes which the world had accepted 
and thanked him for, but the standard of his boyhood had 
never been rejected — he had been considerate of the feel- 
ings of every man and woman (Lettice alone, perhaps, 
having the right to deny it), and had not permitted himself 
one pleasure, or action, or relaxation, which might give 
pain to another. That had been his rule of life. Was it 
not enough ? 


NAME AND FAME, 


195 


He had teased himself, as thoughtful men and women 
often have done, and more often will do, about the problem 
of human morals. It had not occurred to him that the 
morals which have no conscious basis are likely to be more 
sound and permanent than those which are consciously 
built up ; and, as a matter of fact, his own were of that 
kind, though he had his rule and considered himself to be 
guided by it. “ That which gives no pain to another, and 
does not deteriorate another, or oneself, or any sentient 
being, cannot be immoral, though circumstances may make 
it inexpedient.” He had written that sentence in his diary 
before he was twenty, at an age when the expanding soul 
craves for talismans and golden maxims, and he had clung 
to it ever since. For what violation of the law did he suffer 
now? 

This was not Lettice’s way of looking at it. The hero of 
her story was an urn in the hands of a divine artist, and a 
sterner stress was necessary for the consummate work. 
But he, Alan, was no hero. Horace’ verse was nearer 
the mark with him. 


Amphorae coepit 

Institui ; currente rota cur urceus exit ? 

As water to wine were all the uses of his life henceforth, 
compared with that which might have been. 

But, sad as he was, if Lettice could have read within his 
heart she would have been satisfied with her work. 


CHAPTER XXIIL 

I A MURDERER?’' 

Footsteps outside his door roused Alan from his train of 
thoughts. Only his landlady came along that passage, for 
there were no lodgers on the same floor, nor on the one 
above it. A louder knock than Mrs. Gorman was wont to 
give made him start from his seat. 

“ Coma in ! ” he cried ; but before the words were 
spoken the door was thrown open and Cora made her ap- 
pearance. Alan turned sick at heart, and stood leaning 


196 


NAME AND FAME. 


on the end of the mantelpiece, gazing at her without a 
word. 

‘iAh, my dear,” she said, with a little laugh of amuse- 
ment as she saw the disconcerted look on his face, “ they 
have not deceived me ! They did not offer to conduct me, 
but they said I should find you here — first floor front — and 
here you are ! It is long since we met, is it not? You 
have sent huissiers, and gendarmes, and police to bring me 
your messages, as a king to his subject, or a judge to a 
criminal. You should have come yourself, my friend, for 
I have longed to see you. Are you not glad that we meet 
thus, alone, face to face, without fear of intrusion ? ” 

She had shut the door behind her, and sat down in his 
easy chair by the table, inviting him with a gesture to take 
a seat by her side. 

Approach ! ” she said, in a soft but mocking voice. 
“ Be amiable ! Let us talk. I come for peace, not for 
war. Let us make terms with each other. I am sick of 
this farce of hostility between husband and wife — let us 
arrange our little disagreements. Come ! ” 

Her familiar tone was odious to him. The sudden per- 
version of his thoughts from Lettice to this creature, from 
his dream of purity and elevation to this degrading reality, 
filled him with disgust. Nay, something more than dis- 
gust entered his mind as he saw the smile on her besotted 
face. A demon of revenge seized upon him, and all but 
gained the mastery. For one instant he was perilously 
near to springing on her where she sat, and strangling the 
life out of her. All passions and all possibilities are in the 
soul of every one of us, at every moment ; only the motive 
power, the circumstance, the incitement, are needed to 
make us cross the boundary of restraint. If Alan was not 
a murderer, it was not because the thing was impossible to 
him, but because at the crisis of temptation his heart had 
been penetrated by the influence of the woman whom he 
revered, and filled with higher thoughts — even through the 
channel of humiliation and self-contempt. 

He answered her calmly. 

“ There is no arranging what has happened between us 
two — nor do you wish it any more than I. Say what you 
want to say, and go.” 

“ Good ! I will say what I want to say — but I will not 
go. I mean to stay with my husband ; it is my right. Till 


J^AME AND FAME, 


*97 


death do us part — are not those the pretty words of the 
farce we played together ? ” 

“ Who made it a farce — did I ? ” 

“ Listen, my friend. This is one thing I want to say. 
Assuredly it was you, and no other, who made our mar- 
riage a miserable failure. You took me from a life I loved, 
from friends who loved me, from a freedom which I valued, 
and you made no effort to study my tastes and accom- 
modate yourself to my habits.” 

“ God knows I made the effort. But what were those 
tastes and habits? Think of them — think of them all! 
Could I have accommodated myself to all — even to those 
you concealed from me ? ” 

“ Bah ! you should have known whom you had married. 
You were so blind and foolish, that I had a right to think 
you would never interfere with my liberty. I was the child 
of liberty — and liberty is a sacred possession, which it is 
an outrage to take away from any woman. You expected 
me to change, to become all at once another being, cold 
and impassive like yourself — while, as for you, you were to 
change in nothing I It was your duty to come to my level 
— at least to approach it. I would have met you half way ; 
we could have made our contract, and I would have kept 
my part of the bargain. You demanded too much, and 
that is why you lost everything. I condemn you — human- 
ity condemns you. The ruin was your work ! ” 

“ There is something novel in the theory, but I don’t 
think many people would accept it.” He was prepared to 
talk seriously with her, if she wished it, but no man could 
be serious in view of such a preposterpus claim. So he 
fell back upon the cold, ironical calmness which exasper- 
ated Cora far more than a storm of rage would have done. 
“ At any rate,” he said, “ I did not deprive you of your 
liberty. You retained that I ” 

I kept it for myself. You would have taken it away, 
and you hated me for keeping it. I keep it still. I have 
been free to go where I would, free to wander over this 
terrible and desolate city, free now to come back to you, 
and stay with you, until you swear to cease your persecu- 
tions, and swear to make a new compact on more equitable 
terms.” 

It is impossible to make terms with you, for you do 
not observe them. The law will bind you down more 


198 


NAME AND FAME, 


strictly. Meanwhile you cannot remain here, as you pro- 
pose.” 

“ Do you mean to throw me into the street? ” she asked, 
passionately. “ Alive or dead, I stay here until the com- 
pact is made.” 

“You need have no fear of me ; I am not going to kill 
you.” 

“ Fear ! Of you ! Do not flatter yourself, my friend I ” 

With an insulting laugh she plucked a thin stiletto from 
under her cloak, and brandished it before him. Alan recog- 
nized it as one which he had missed after her visit to Mon- 
tagu Place. 

“ Look there ! Would you like to feel if it is sharp, or 
will you take my word for it ? We may want that before 
we part. I do not much care whether you use it or I ; but 
I will not leave this room unless you concede all that I ask. 
Do not stand so far from me, coward. You smile, but you 
are afraid ! ” 

“Why should I fear your play-acting? You will not 
touch me, for so long as I live you hope to get money 
from me, and if I were dead you would starve.” 

“ Miserable hound ! Do, you not think that hate is 
stronger even than love of gold ? ” 

“ Not your hate. Throw that useless toy away. Love 
of gold and love of self make us both perfectly safe.” 

“ Listen to my terms.” 

“No; they are refused before you ask them. The law 
is in motion — nothing shall prevent me from getting my 
divorce.” 

“ That you may marry this woman ! ” she blazed forth, 
jumping from her seat, with Lettice’s book in her hand. It 
had been lying before her, and the name had caught her 
eye. “You shall never marry her — I swear it by my 
father’s grave. You shall never divorce me ! ” 

She flung the book in his face. 

“ Let me pass ! ” he said, moving quietly to the door. 

“ Never ! ” 

She seized the dagger, and stood before him, swaying 
with her violent emotion. 

“ Let me pass,” he said again, still pressing forward. 

She raised the weapon in her hand. Not a moment too 
soon he grasped her wrist, and tried to take it from her 
with his other hand. 


J\rAM£ AND FAME, 


199 


There was a struggle — a loud scream — a heavy fall — and 
silence. 

A minute later Mrs. Gorman, attracted by the noise, 
burst into the room. 

Cora was lying on the floor, and Alan, with white face 
and bloody hand, was drawing the fatal weapon from her 
breast. 

Mrs. Gorman’s first act was to rush to the open window, 
and call for the police. Then she knelt by Cora’s body, and 
tried to staunch the flowing blood. 

A lodger from the floor beneath, who had come in behind 
the landlady, was looking at the prostrate body. He was 
a medical student, and perhaps thought it necessary to 
give his opinion in a case of this sort. 

She cannot live ten minutes,” he said ; but that did not 
prevent him from assisting Mrs. Gorman in her work. 

Alan had staggered back against the wall, still holding 
the dagger in his hand. He scarcely knew what had hap- 
pened, but the words of the last speaker forced themselves 
upon him with terrible distinctness. 

“My God,” he cried, “am I a murderer?” 

And he fell upon the chair, and buried his face in his 
hands. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

HOPELESS. 

If she dies,” Graham said to his wife, in answer to Clara’s 
anxious questioning, on the morning after Alan Walcott’s 
arrest, “ it will be a case of murder or manslaughter. If 
she gets over it he will be charged with an attempt to mur- 
der, or to do grievous bodily harm, and as there would be 
her evidence to be considered in that case the jury would 
be sure to take the worst view of it. That might mean 
five or ten years, perhaps more. The best thing that 
could happen for him would be her death, then they might 
incline to believe his statement, and a clever counsel might 
get him off with a few months’ imprisonment.” 

“Poor man,” said Clara, “how very shocking it is ! ” 
She was thinking not of Alan alone, but of Alan’s friends. 
“ Is there no hope of his being acquitted altogether? ” 


200 


//AMIi, AND FAME. 


“ How could there be? The evidence is only too clear. 
The landlady heard tliem quarrelling and struggling 
together, then there was a loud scream, and just as she 
entered the room the poor wretch was falling to the ground. 
Walcott had his hand on the dagger, which was still in his 
wife’s breast. Then the other lodger came in, and he de- 
clares t]iat he heard Walcott say he was a murderer. It 
seems as plain as it could possibly be.” 

“ But think of the two, as we know them to have been, 
and the relations which have existed between them for 
years past. Surely that must tell in his favor ? ” 

“We are not the jury, remember. And, as for that, it 
v/ould only go to show a motive for the crime, and make 
a conviction all the more certain.' No doubt it might in- 
duce them to call it manslaughter instead of murder,’ and 
the judge might pass a lighter sentence.’’ 

“ I do hope she will not die. It would be terrible to 
have her death on his conscience.” 

“Well, of course, death is an ugly word, and no one has’ 
a right to wish that another might die. At the same time, 
I should say it would be a happy release for such a crea- 
ture, who can have nothing but misery before her. But it 
will make little difference to him. He is entirely ruined, 
so far as his reputation is concerned. He could never 
hold his ground in England again, though he might have 
a second chance at the other side of the world. What 
Britain can’t forget, Australia forgives. Heaven created 
the Antipodes to restore the moral balance of Europe.” 

“That is a poor satisfaction,” said Clara, “to a man 
who does not want to live out of his own country.” 

“ Unfortunately, my dear, we cannot always choose our 
lot, especially when we have had the misfortune to kill or 
maim somebody in a fit of passion.” 

“ I cannot believe that it is even so bad as that. It 
must have been an accident.” 

“ I wish I could think so ; but if it is, no doubt the man 
may have the courage of his conscience, and then there 
will be nothing to prevent him from trying to live it down 
in London. I should not care for that sort of thing my- 
self. I confess I depend too much on other people’s 
opinions.” 

“It would be a terribe fight to live it down in London 
— terrible, both for him and his friends.” 


NAME AND FAME. 


201 


“Ah,” said Graham, quickly, “it is a good thing that 
he has nobody in particular depending on him, no specially 
intimate friends that we are aware of.” 

Clara looked steadily at the wall for two or three min- 
utes, whilst her husband finished his breakfast. 

“ I wrote to Lattice last night,” she said at last, “but, 
of course, I knew nothing of this business then.” 

“ I am very glad you did not. What on earth put Lattice 
into your head? She has no conceivable interest in this 
miserable affair.” 

“ I think it is rather too much to say that she has no in- 
terest at all. We know that she was interested in him.” 

“ We know that he is a married man,” 

Graham’s tone was growing a little savage, as it did 
sometimes, especially with his wife, whom he very sincerely 
loved. But Clara did not heed the warning note. 

“ Facts are facts, and we should not ignore them. I am 
sure they like each other, and his misfortune wilfbe a great 
grief to her.” 

“ It was just what was wanted, then, to bring her to her 
senses. She may recognize now that Walcott is a man of 
ungovernable passions. In all probability he will be a con- 
victed felon before she comes back to England, and she will 
see that it is impossible to know any more of him.” 

“ Oh, James, how hard you are ! She will never think of 
him as a felon. No more shall I ! ” 

“ He will be one, whatever you may think. As you said 
yourself, facts are facts, and they will have their proper 
influence upon you sooner or later.” 

“ But do you think that Lettice is the woman to change 
her opinion of a man just because he is unfortunate, or to 
despise him as soon as he gets into trouble ? I am perfectly 
sure she is not.” 

“ We shall see,” said Graham. “ I give her credit for 
more sense. I don’t think you recognize yet the sort of 
offence which Walcott has committed, so we may as well 
drop the subject for a time. I hope, however, that you will 
not do anything which might bring her home just now. 
Clearly she could not do any good, and even on your own 
showing it would be a needless vexation to her.” 

He went off to his study, and Clara set about her house- 
hold tasks with a heavy heart. 

The fact was that she could hardly doubt that Alan Wal- 
cott had injured his wife in a moment of desperation, when 


202 


J\rAME AND FAME. 


he was not fully responsible for his actions ; but she cer- 
tainly doubted the justice of any law which could condemn 
him as a murderer ; or doom him to be an outcast amongst 
his fellowmen. Her sense of equity might have suited the 
Saturnian reign better than our matter-of-fact nineteenth 
century, in which the precise more or less of criminality in 
the soul of an accused man is not the only thing which has 
to be taken into consideration. 

Was there ever a malefactor condemned to imprisonment 
or torment for whom the heart of some woman or other did 
not plead in mitigation of his sentence? Yet the man- 
made laws against which untutored hearts will now and 
again protest are often essentially merciful in comparison 
with the wild and hasty judgments that outrun the law — 
whether in mercy or in severity. 

It was so in Alan’s case. The popular opinion was evi- 
dently against him. The great majority thought this case 
of attempted wife-murder too clear for argument, and too 
cold-blooded to warrant anything like sympathy for the 
accused. Alan’s private affairs had been made public 
property for some time past, and he now suffered from a 
storm of hostility and prejudice against which it was im- 
possible to contend. His story, or the world’s story about 
him, had been current gossip for the last few months, as 
the reader has already seen ; and a large number of people 
appeared to have fixed upon him as a type of the respect- 
able and hypocritical sinner, prosperous, refined, moving 
in good society and enjoying a fair reputation, yet secretly 
hardened and corrupt. It was not often that the under- 
hand crimes of such men were plainly exposed to view, and, 
when they were, an example ought to be made of the of- 
fender as a warning to his class. Ever since Cora had 
gained a hearing in the police-court at Hammersmith, 
Alan was set down as a heartless libertine, who had grown 
tired of his wife, or, at any rate, as one who wanted to 
wash his hands of her, and throw the burden of maintain- 
ing her up_on the rates. Thus it became quite a popular 
pastime to hound down “ Poet Walcott.” 

This is how the outcry originally began. One or two 
newspapers with an ethical turn, which had borrowed from 
the pulpit a trick of improving the sensational events of 
the day for the edification of their readers, and which pos- 
sessed a happy knack of writing about anything and any- 


NAME AND FAME. 


203 


body without perpetrating a libel or incurring a charge of 
contempt of court, had printed articles on “ The Poet and 
the Pauper,” “ Divorce Superseded,” and the like. Stirred 
up by these interesting homilies, a few shallow men and 
women, with too much time on their hands, began to write 
inept letters, some of which were printed j and then the 
editors, being accused of running after sensations, pointed 
to their correspondents as evidence of a public opinion 
which they could not control, and to which they were com- 
pelled to give utterance. They were, in fact, not dishonest 
but only self-deceived. They really persuaded themselves 
that they were responding to a general sentiment, though, 
such as it was, their own reports and articles had called it 
into existence. The “ gentleman in court ” who paid Cora’s, 
fine at Hammersmith began the outcry in its last and 
worst form, the editorials nursed and encouraged it, and the 
correspondents gave it its malignant character. All con- 
cerned in the business were equally convinced that they 
were actuated by the best possible motives. 

The news that Walcott had stabbed his wife with a dag- 
ger did not take these charitable people by surprise, though 
it added fuel to the fire of their indignation. What else 
could be expected from a man who had first deserted and 
then starved the unfortunate woman whom he had taken 
to wife? It was only natural that he should try to get rid 
of her ; but what a cruel wretch he was ! Hanging would 
be too good for him if his poor victim should die. 

It is unnecessary to say that a great deal of interest was 
displayed by the public, when the case came on for hear- 
ing at Bow Street ; but no real facts were elicited beyond 
those which had already been in print. Two remands 
were taken, in the hope that Cora might recover sufficiently 
to give her evidence, but though she was at last declared 
to be out of danger, the house-surgeon at the hospital would 
not take the responsibility of saying that she could safely 
attend at the police-court. Ultimately, the magistrate 
having heard all the evidence that was forthcoming, and 
Alan’s solicitor reserving his defence, the accused was 
committed to take his trial at the Central Criminal Court 
on a charge of wounding with intent to inflict grievous 
bodily harm. 

Nevertheless, Alan was allowed to go out on bail. He 
had not cared to claim this privilege, and would almost 


204 


/iTAMB AND FAME. 


have preferred to stay in prison. His solicitor had made 
much of the necessity of preparing his defence, and of the 
indispensable conferences between himself and his client ; 
but Alan had not the slightest hope of being acquitted. He 
told Mr. Larmer precisely how the whole thing had hap- 
pened — how his wife had brought the dagger with her, how 
she had raised it in her hand, how he seized her wrist, and 
how he had never touched the weapon himself until he 
drew it from the wound as she lay on the floor. 

“They won’t believe me,” he said. “ You know what 
a prejudice there is against me, and you will never per- 
suade a jury to take my word against hers. She will cer- 
tainly say that I stabbed her with my own dagger ; and it 
was my dagger once : it has my name upon it.” 

“ That is an awkward fact. If only we could prove that 
she brought it with her, it would go a long way towards 
acquitting you.” 

“ But we can’t prove it. Then, you see, Mrs. Gorman 
says I had my hand on the weapon as she was falling.” 

“ We can easily shake her in that.” 

“ And Hipkins says that I admitted the crime — called 
myself a murderer.” 

“ We can shake that too. You said, ‘ Am I a murderer ? ’ 
It was an odd thing to say, but your nerves were unstrung. 
Men in such predicaments have been known to say a great 
deal more than that.” 

“ I assure you Larmer, my mind is so confused about it 
that I cannot remember whether I said ‘ Am I ’ or ‘ I am.’ 
I rather incline to think that I said ‘ I am a murderer ; ’ 
for I believed her to be as good as dead at the time, and I 
certainly thought I had killed her.” 

“ How could you think that? You are clear in your 
mind that you never touched the dagger.” 

“ Yes, but I touched the hand that held the dagger.” 

Larmer looked at his friend and client in a dubious way, 
as though he could not feel quite sure of his sanity. 

“ My dear Walcott,” he said, “ you are out of tune — 
upset by all this miserable business ; and no wonder. You 
say you touched the hand that held the dagger that stabbed 
the woman. We know you did ; what then ? What moved 
the fingers that touched the hand that held the dagger, et 
cetera? Was it a good motive or a bad motive, tell 


J^AM^ AND FAME, 


205 


That is just what I can’t tell you, for I don’t know. 
Perhaps it was an instinct of self-defence ; but I have no 
recollection of being afraid that she would stab me. I had 
a confused notion that she was going to stab herself ; per- 
haps, I only got as far as thinking that the bodkin would 
be better out of her hand.” 

“ This is a touch of your old subtlety. I do believe you 
could work yourself up to thinking that you actually wanted 
to hurt her ! ” 

“ Subtlety or no subtlety, these impressions are very 
acute in my own mind. I can see the whole of that scene 
as plainly as I see you at this moment. It comes before 
my eyes in a series of pictures, vivid and complete in every 
twist and turn ; only the motives that guided me are 
blurred and confused. I grasped her wrist, and she strug- 
gled frantically to shake me off. Our faces were close 
together, and there was a horrible fascination in her eyes 
— the eyes of a madwoman at that moment, beyond all 
question.” 

“ I am convinced that she is mad, and has been so for 
years,” said Mr. Larmer, positively. 

“ She was mad then, foaming at the mouth, and trying 
to bite me in her impotent fury. I could not hold her wrist 
firmly — she plunged here and there so violently that one 
or other of us was pretty sure to be hurt, unless I could 
force her to drop the murderous weapon. I was ashamed 
that I could not do it ; but she had the strength of a de- 
mon, and I really wonder that she did not master me. 
Then the end came. Suddenly her resistance ceased. The 
desperate force with which I had been holding her hand 
must have been fully exerted at the very instant when her 
muscles relaxed — when the light went out of her eyes and 
the body staggered to the ground. It all happened at once. 
Did she faint ? At any rate, my fingers never touched the 
dagger until after she was stabbed.” 

It was a pure accident — as clear as can be ; and the 
whole blame of it is on her own shoulders. She brought 
the weapon, she held it, she resisted you when you tried to 
prevent mischief. She, not you, had the disposition to 
injure, and you have not an atom of responsibility.” 

“That is your view, as a friend. It is not the view of 
the scandal-mongers outside. It will not be the view of 
the jury. And it is not my view.” 


2o6 


J\rAM£ AND FAME, 


“ What do you mean ? ” 

“ I really do not know where my responsibility began or 
where it ended. I don’t know if her strength failed her at 
the critical moment, or if it was simply overcome by mine 
— if, in fact, she was injured whilst resisting my violence. 
One thing I am sure of, and that is that my heart was full 
of hatred towards her. There was vengeance in my soul 
if not in my intention. Who is to discriminate between 
motives so near allied ? Your friendship may acquit me, 
Larmer, but your instincts as a lawyer cannot ; and at any 
rate, I cannot acquit myself of having entertained the feel- 
ing out of which crimes of violence naturally spring. To 
all intents and purposes I am on exactly the same footing 
as many a man who has ended his life on the gallows.” 

“ I suppose you think that tribulation is good for your 
soul. I cannot see any other ground on which you tor- 
ment yourself in this way about things you have not done 
and acts you have never contemplated. I understand that 
you entrusted me with your defence ! ” Mr. Larmer was 
waxing impatient — almost indignant — at his client’s tone. 

“ So I do, entirely. Assuredly I have no desire to go to 
prison.” 

“ Then for goodness’ sake don’t talk to anyone else the 
nonsense you have been talking to me ! ” 

“ I am not likely. I have known you since we were boys 
together, and I wanted to relieve my mind. It seemed right 
that you should know precisely what is on my conscience 
in the matter.” 

“ Well, you have told me, and the effect of it has been 
to convince me more than ever of your innocence. But 
that sort of thing would scarcely convince anybody else. 
Now take my advice, and think as little about the case as 
possible. You cannot do any good — you will only demo- 
ralize yourself still more. Everything depends on how the 
judge and jury may be disposed to regard our story. I 
shall give a brief to the best man that can be had, and then 
we shall have done all that lies in our power.” 

“ I know I could not be in better hands. If anyone could 
get me off scot-free you are the man to do it, Larmer. But 
I don’t expect it, and I am not sure that I care for it.” 

Then they parted, and Alan went to Surrey Street and 
cleared out his goods and chattels, very much to the relief 
of Mrs. Gorman, who assured Mr. Hipkins that she could 


NAME AND FAME. 


207 


not liave slept comfortably at night with that outrageous 
man under the same roof. 

He found in his desk the message which he had written 
to Lettice on the day of his crowning misfortune. 

“ Thank heaven I did not send it,” he muttered to him- 
self, as he tore it in pieces. “ One week has made all the 
difference. Nothing could ever justify me in speaking to 
her again.” 


CHAPTER XXV. 

MR. LARMER GIVES A BRIEF. 

Mr. Larmer was not insensible to the notoriety which 
attached to him as solicitor for the defence in a case which 
was the talk of the town, and a topic of the sensational 
press. Not that it gave him any satisfaction to make ca- 
pital out of the misfortunes of a friend j but he would have 
been something more than man and less than lawyer if he 
had despised the professional chance which had come in 
his way. 

And in fact he did not despise it. There were one or two 
inexact statements in the reports of the proceedings at Bow 
Street — he had written to the papers and corrected them. 
Several caterers for the curiosity of the public hashed up 
as many scandals as they could find, and served them hot 
for the entertainment of their readers. It happened that 
these tales were all more or less to the discredit of Alan 
Walcott, and to print them before his trial was grossly un- 
fair. Mr. Larmer wrote a few indignant words on this sub- 
ject also, and made about two in a thousand of the scandal- 
mongers ashamed of themselves. Not content with this 
he supplied a friend with one or two paragraphs relating 
to the case, which had the effect of stimulating the interest 
already aroused in it. By this plan he secured the inser- 
tion of a statement in the best of the society journals, 
which put the matter at issue in a fair and unprejudiced 
way, dwelling on such facts as the pending divorce-suit, the 
fining of Mrs. Walcott at Hammersmith, her molestation 
of her husband on various recent occasions, and her intru- 
sion upon him in Alfred Place. This article, written with 


2o8 


JSrAM£ AND FAME, 


manifest knowledge of the circumstances, yet with much 
reserve and moderation, was a very serviceable diversion in 
Alan’s favor, and did something to diminish the odium 
into which he had fallen. 

Mr. Larmer would not have selected trial by ordeal in 
the columns of the newspapers as the best preparation for 
a trial before an English judge and jury j but the process 
was begun by others before he had a word to say in the 
matter, and his efforts were simply directed to making the 
most of the situation which had been created. A mass of 
prejudice had been introduced into the case by the worthy 
gentlemen who maintain that in these evil days the press 
is the one tiling needful for moral and political salvation, 
and who never lose an opportunity of showing how easy it 
would be to govern a nation by leading articles, or to re- 
deem humanity by a series of reports and interviews. Alan 
had given himself up for lost when he found himself in the 
toils of this prejudice ; but Mr. Larmer saw a chance of turn- 
ing it to good account both for his client and for himself, 
and not unnaturally took advantage of the awakened curio- 
sity to put his friend’s case clearly and vividly before the 
popular tribunal. 

Alan nearly upset the calculation of the lawyer by his 
impatience of the interviewing tribe. Half-a-dozen of them 
found him out at different times, and would not take his 
no for an answer. At last worried by the pertinacity of 
one bolder and clumsier than all the rest, he took him by 
the shoulders and bundled him out of his room, and the 
insulted ambassador, as he called himself, wrote to his em- 
ployer a particularly spiteful account of his reception, with 
sundry embellishments perhaps more picturesque than 
strictly accurate. 

The next thing that Mr. Larmer had to do was to retain 
counsel, and he determined to secure as big a man as pos- 
sible to conduct the defence. The case had assumed great- 
er importance than would attach to an ordinary assault 
upon a wife by her husband. It was magnified by the 
surrounding circumstances, so that the interest felt in it 
was legitimate enough, apart from the spurious notoriety 
which had been added to it. Alan’s literary fame had 
grown considerably within the last year, and his friends 
had been terribly shocked by the first bald statement that 
he had stabbed his unfortunate wife in a fit of rage. 


J\rAME AND FAME, 


209 


They had begun by refusing to believe it, then they 
trusted that he would be able to prove his innocence, but 
by this time many of his warmest admirers were assuring 
each other that, “ after all, the artistic merit of a poem 
never did and never would depend upon the moral char- 
acter of the poet.” They hoped for the best, but were 
quite prepared for the worst, and thus they looked forward 
to the trial with an anxiety not unmingled with curious 
anticipation. 

The indirect connection of Lettice Campion with a case 
of this kind was another intelligible reason for the concern 
of the respectable public. Lettice’s name was in every- 
body’s mouth, as that of the young novelist who had made 
such a brilliant success at the outset of her career, and all 
who happened to know how she had been mixed up at an 
earlier stage in the quarrel between Walcott and his wife, 
were wondering if she would put in an appearance, will- 
ingly or unwillingly, at the Central Criminal Court. 

Mr. Larmer clearly saw that the business was sufficiently 
important to justify the intervention of the most eminent 
counsel. As he was running over the list and balancing 
the virtues of different men for an occasion of this sort, 
his eye fell on the name of Sydney Campion. He started, 
and sank back in his chair to meditate. 

The idea of having Mr. Campion to defend a man with 
whom his sister’s name had been unjustly associated was 
a bold one, and it had not occurred to him before. Was 
there any reason against it? What more natural than 
that this rising pleader should come into court for the 
special purpose of safeguarding the interests of Miss 
Campion ? The prosecution would not hesitate to intro- 
duce her name if they thought it would do them any good 
— especially as they would have the contingency of the 
divorce case in their minds ; and Campion was just the 
man to nip any attempt of that kind in the bud. At all 
events, the judge was more likely to listen to him on such 
a point than to anyone ^else. But would not the practice 
and etiquette of the bar put it absolutely out of the 
question. 

The thing was worth considering — worth talking over 
with Campion himself. So Mr. Larmer put on his hat at 
once, and went over to the Temple. 


14 


2ro 


J\rAME AND FAME, 


I have come to see you on a rather delicate matter,” 
he said, by way of introduction, “ as you will understand 
if you happen to have seen my name in connection with 
the Walcott assault case. There are sundry matters 
involved which make it difficult to keep the case within its 
proper limits, and I thought that an informal consultation 
on the subject, before I proceed to retain counsel, might 
facilitate matters.” 

“ Perhaps it might ; but I hardly see how I can help 
you.” 

“ Well, it occurred to me that if you were in court 
during the trial, you would have the opportunity of check- 
ing anything that might arise of an irrelevant character — 
any references ” 

“ And what do you propose ? ” said Sydney, interrupting. 

“ It would be hard that we should be prevented from 
putting our case in the hands of such counsel as we con- 
sider best calculated to bring it to a successful issue. If 
there is no strong personal reason against it, but on the 
other hand (as it seems to me) an adequate reason in its 
favor, I trust that you will allow me to send you a brief.” 

“ Let me ask you — did you come to me in any sense at 
the instance of your client? ” said Sydney, suspiciously. 

“ By no means. Mr. Walcott does not know I have 
thought of you in connection with his defence.” 

“Nor at the instance of another? ” 

“ Certainly not. It is entirely my own idea.” 

Sydney looked relieved. He could not ask outright if 
there had been any communication with his sister, but that 
was what he was thinking about. 

“ I hope we may rely upon you,” said Mr. Larmer. 

“ I don’t know. I am not sure that you can. This is, 
as you said, a perfectly informal conversation, and I may 
frankly tell you that what you ask is out of the question. 
I hope you will think no more about it.” 

Mr. Larmer was troubled. 

“ It seemed to me, Mr. Campion, that the idea would 
commend itself at once. I fear you did not quite take my 
meaning when I spoke of possible side issues and irrele- 
vant questions which might arise during the trial ? ” 

“Surely I did. You meant that counsel for the prosecu- 
tion might think to advance his cause by referring to other 
proceedings, past or future, and might even go so far as 


NAME AND FAME, 


211 


to name a lady who has been most wantonly and cruelly 
maligned by one of the parties to this case ? ” 

“ Exactly. You use the very words in regard to it which 
I would have used myself. That is a contingency, I 
imagine, which you would strongly desire to avoid.” 

“ So strongly do I desire it, that you would not be 
surprised if I had already taken measures with that end 
in view.” 

“ Decidedly not. But it will be only natural that the 
prosecution should try and damage Walcolt as much as 
possible — showing the motive he would have for getting 
rid of his wife, and going into the details of their former 
quarrels. The question is whether any man can be 
expected, in doing this, to abstain from mentioning the 
names of third parties.” 

“ Has it never occurred to you, Mr. Larmer, that there 
is one way, and only one way, in which I could certainly 
guaranteee that the name of the lady in question should 
not be mentioned? Your plan, if you will excuse my 
saying so, is clumsy and liable to fail. Mine is perfectly 
secure against failure, and oerhaps a little more congenial.” 

Larmer’s face fell. 

You do not mean,” he said, “ that you have taken a 
brief from the prosecution ! ” 

“ If I had, I should have stopped you as soon as 
you began to speak, and told you so. But I may say 
as much as this — if I am retained by them I shall go 
into court ; and, if they retain anyone, else, I shall have 
good reason to know that the case will be conducted pre- 
cisely as I should conduct it myself. I imagine that this 
matters very little to you, Mr. Larmer. I have not done 
much with this class of cases, and there will be no diffi- 
culty in finding a stronger man.” 

Mr. Larmer was silent for a minute or two. Sydney 
Campion’s manner took him aback. 

“ I am sorry to hear what you have said,” h« remarked at 
last. “ I fear it must inevitably prejudice my client if it 
is known that you are on the other side.” 

“ I don’t see why it should,” Sydney said, with manifest 
indifference. “ At any rate, with respect to the point you 
were mentioning, it is clear that the lady’s name will not 
be introduced by the prosecution.” 

‘‘ Let it be equally clear,” said Larmer, “ that it will not 
be introduced by the defence. This was the first instruc- 


212 


JSTAMJS AND FAME. 


tion which I received from my client — wlio, I may say, was a 
schoolfellow of mine, and in whose honor, and not only 
honor, but technical innocence, I have the utmost con- 
fidence.” 

“You have undertaken his defence, and I am sure he is 
in very good hands,” said Sydney with a rather cynical 
smile. “ But, perhaps, the less said the better as to the 
honor of a married man who, under false pretenses, dares 
to pay attentions to an unmarried lady.’’ 

“ Believe me you are mistaken ! Alan Walcott has done 
nothing of the kind.” 

“ He has done enough to create a scandal. You are 
not denying that his attitude has beeen such as to bring 
the name of the lady forward in a most objectionable 
manner, without the slightest contribution on her part to 
such a misfortune ? ” 

“ I do deny it, most emphatically, and I beg you to dis- 
abuse your mind of the idea. What possible ground can 
you have for such a charge ? The mere tipsy ravings of 
this unfaithful wife — whom I should probably have no 
difficulty in proving insane, as well as unfaithful and in- 
temi)erate. What is actually known is that she has been 
heard by the police, on one or two occasions, referring 
by name to this lady. How far would you as a lawyer, 
Mr. Campion, allow that fact to have weight as evidence 
in support of the charge ? And can you mention, beyond 
that, one tittle of evidence of any kind?” 

Sydney shrugged his shoulders. 

“We are not considering evidence as you know very 
well. We are talking as two men of the world, quite com- 
petent to draw the right deduction from admitted facts. I 
say that when a lady has been so grievously insulted as 
Miss Campion has been, under circumstances of such 
great aggravation, the man who has brought that indignity 
upon her, however indirectly, must be held directly re- 
sponsible for his conduct.” 

“ It is useless to argue the point — the more so as I fancy 
that Mr. Walcott himself would be very much inclined to 
agree with you — which I am not. He most bitterly regrets 
the annoyance to which Miss Campion has been subjected, 
and regards it as the greatest of all the injuries inflicted 
upon him by his degraded wife. Having said this on his 
behalf, let me add that any charge brought against him on 


J\rAAfy£ AND FAME, 


213 


this score, by that woman or by anyone else, is absolutely 
without foundation, and that we shall know how to defend 
his reputation, in or out of court, whenever and by whom- 
soever it may be attacked.” 

“ Your warmth does you credit, Mr. Larmer. I will be 
equally frank with you. You speak as a friend, I speak as 
a brother. After all that has happeneti I do not hold my- 
self bound, nor do I intend, to consider anyone or any- 
thing in comparison with the credit of the name which has 
been so foully aspersed. It is for me to protect that name 
from discredit, and I shall adopt every expedient within 
my reach to carry out my purpose.” 

No doubt you are perfectly justified in doing so. I 
will merely remark that hostility to my client cannot assist 
you in your object.” 

Well,” said Sydney, rising from his seat, “ there can 
be no use in continuing the conversation.” And he added, 
in a lighter tone, “ I am sorry, Mr. Larmer, that I should 
be compelled to decline the first brief you have offered 
me.” 

Larmer went back to his office a little crestfallen, but 
not at all sorry that he had had this interview with Cam- 
pion. He was better prepared now for the course which 
the trial was likely to follow. He had no doubt that Cam- 
pion would be bold enough to undertake the prosecution, 
and that he would do his best to get a conviction against 
Walcott, whom he manifestly disliked. He was less san- 
guine from that moment as to the result of his efforts ; but, 
of course, he did not relax them. He retained Mr. Charles 
Milton, a man with an excellent reputation in criminal 
business, and one who, as he thought, would do his utmost 
to avoid losing a case to Campion. 

Milton, in effect, took the matter up with much zeal. 
He had (so far as his professional instinct allowed him) 
accepted the theory of Walcott’s guilt, rather respecting 
him, if the truth were known, for refusing to put up any 
longer with the persecutions of a revolted wife. But he 
had no sooner received his brief in the case than he was 
perfectly convinced of Walcott’s innocence. The story 
told him by Mr. Larmer seemed not only natural but 
transparently true, and when he heard that his club-mate 
of the Oligarcliy was actively interested for the other side, 
he determined that no effort on his part should be wanting 
to secure a verdict. 


214 


ATAAfE AND FAME. 


Not that he had any grudge against Sydney ; but they 
belonged to the same profession, the same party, and the 
same club — three conceivable reasons for Mr. Milton’s 
zeal. 

Thus Alan’s defence was well provided for, and Mr. 
Larmer began to feel more easy in his mind. 

When Alan heard that the prosecution was likely to be 
conducted by Sydney Campion, he took the news quietly, 
though it was a very serious matter for him. He did not 
doubt its seriousness, but his heart had already fallen so 
low that it could scarcely sink lower. He saw at once 
that the motive of Lettice’s brother in angling for this 
brief (as Alan concluded that he must have done) was to 
protect the interests of Lettice ; and so far, the fact was a 
matter of congratulation. It was his own great desire, as 
Larmer knew, to prevent her name from being mentioned, 
and to avoid reference to anything in which she had been 
indirectly concerned, even though the reference might 
have been made without using her name. When Larmer 
pointed out that this quixotism, as he called it, would 
make it almost impossible for his counsel to show the ex- 
treme malignity of his wife and the intolerable persecution 
to which he had been subjected, he had answered shortly 
and decisively, 

“ Let it be impossible. The first object is not my de- 
fence, but hers.” 

“ Your vision is distorted,” Larmer had said angrily. 
“This may seem to you right and generous, but I tell you 
it is foolish and unnecessary.” 

“ I will not be guided in this particular thing,” Alan re- 
joined, “ by your reason, but by my feeling. An acquittal 
at her cost would mean a lifelong sorrow.” 

“ If I know anything of women. Miss Campion, who 
does not quite hate you, would insist on having the whole 
story told in open court. Perhaps she may return to 
England in time for the trial, and then she can decide , the 
point herself.” 

“ Heaven forbid ! ” Alan had said. And he meant it. 
Worse than that, he tortured himself with the idea, which 
he called a firm belief, that Lettice had heard, or would 
hear, of his disgraceful position, that she would be unable 
to doubt that he had struck the fatal blow, and that he 
would be dropped out of her heart and out of her life, as a 


NAME AND FAME. 


2^5 


matter of course. How could it be other\\dse? What 
was he to her, that she should believe him innocent in 
spite of appearances ; or that, believing him merely unfor- 
tunate and degraded, she should not think less well of him 
than when he held his name high in the world of letters 
and in society ? 

“ That dream is gone,” he said. “ Let me forget it, and 
wake to the new life that opens before me. A new life—-' 
born in a police cell, baptized in a criminal court, suckled 
in a prison, and trained in solitary adversity. That is the 
fate for which I have been reserved. I may be nearly 
fifty when I come out — a broken-down man, without repu- 
tation and without a hope. Truly, the dream is at an end ; 
and oh, God of Heaven, make her forget me as though we 
had never met ! ” 

So, when Mr. Larmer frankly told him all that Sydney 
Campion had said, Alan could not find it in his heart to 
blame Lettice’s brother for his hostility. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

IN COURT. 

No doubt it was from some points of view an unprofes- 
sional act of Sydney Campion to appear in court as 
counsel for the prosecution of Alan Walcott. Sydney knew 
that he was straining a rule of etiquette, to say the least of 
it; but, under the circumstances, he held himself justified 
in fishing for the brief. 

The matter had been taken up by the Treasury, and 
Sydney had asked an intimate friend, who was also a 
friend of the Attorney-General, to give the latter a hint. 
Now Sir James was, above all things, a suave and politic 
man of the world, who thought that persons of position 
and influence got on best in the intricate game of life by 
deftly playing into each other’s hands. When one gentle- 
man could do something for another gentleman, to oblige 
and accommodate him, it was evidently the proper course 
to do it gracefully and without fuss. Campion’s motives 
were clearly excellent. As he understood the business 
(although the ambassador put it very delicately indeed), a 


2i6 


J\rAM£ AND FAME. 


lady’s reputation was at stake ; and if Sir James prided 
himself on one thing more than another, it was his gal- 
lantry and discretion in matters of this kind. So he told 
his friend to go back and set Mr. Campion’s mind at rest ; 
and in the course of a day or two Sydney received his 
brief. 

“ Who is going to defend?” he asked his clerk, when he 
had glanced at his instructions. 

“ I heard just now that Larmer had retained Mr. Charles 
Milton.” 

“ Charles Milton ! The deuce ! It will be a pretty little 
fight, Johnson ! ” 

“ They don’t seem to have a leg to stand on ; the evi- 
dence is all one way, even without the wife. I don’t know 
what his story is, but it cannot have any corroboration 
— and hers is well supported.” 

“ I am told she will be able to appear. She seems to be 
a terrible talker — that is the worst of her. I must keep 
her strictly within the ropes.” 

“ The other side will not have the same motives,” said 
Johnson, who knew all about the scandal which had pre- 
ceded the assault, and who wanted to get his employer to 
speak. 

“ You think Mr. Milton will draw her on ? ” 

“ Sure to, I should say. If I were defending (since you 
ask me), I would not loose my grip until I had got her into 
a rage ; and from all I hear that would make the jury be- 
lieve her capable of anything, even of stabbing herself and 
swearing it on her husband.” 

“ But, my good fellow, you are not defending him ! And 
I’ll take care she is not worked up in that fashion. Thanks 
for the suggestion, all the same. They will contend that 
it was done in a struggle.” 

“ Against that, you have her evidence that the blow was 
deliberate ; and I think the jury will believe her.” 

“ They can’t help themselves : motive, incitements, favor- 
ing circumstances, are all too manifest. And that just 
makes the difficulty and delicacy of the case for me. I 
want the jury to see the whole thing impartially, that they 
may do justice, without bias and without foolish weakness ; 
and yet there are certain matters connected with it which 
need not be dwelt upon — which must, in fact, be kept 
in the background altogether. Do you see ? ” 


AND FAME. 


217 


I think I do.” Johnson was a good deal in Sydney’s 
confidence, being a man of much discretion, and with con- 
siderable knowledge of the law. He felt that his advice 
was being asked, or at any rate his opinion, and he met 
Mr. Campion’s searching gaze with one equally cool and 
serious. 

“ I have no doubt you know as much about it as I could 
tell you. You seem to hear everything from one source or 
another. Do you understand why it is that I am going 
into court? It is not altogether a regular thing to do, is 
it?” 

“ I suppose you wish to keep the evidence well in hand,” 
Johnson replied, readily. “ A lady’s name has been used 
in a very unwarrantable manner, and — since you ask me — 
you have undertaken to see that there is no unnecessary 
repetition of the matter in court.” 

“ Precisely so — no repetition at all.” 

“ You will examine your own witness, and, of course, you 
need not go behind the scene in Surrey Street, at which 
the crime was actually committed — except in opening your 
case. What the jury will say is this : husband and wife 
on bad terms, separated, and divorce pending ; wife comes 
to husband’s rooms, reproaches him ; recriminations ; 
dagger handy on the table (very bad for him that) ; a sud- 
den temptation, a sudden blow, and there’s an end of it. 
No need to prove they were on bad terms, with all those 
facts before you.” 

“ But then comes the defence.” 

“ Well, sir, what is their line going to be? If they want 
to persuade the jury that she did it herself, or that it was 
an accident, they will not dwell upon all the reasons which 
misrht have tempted him to take her life. That would be 
weakening their own case.’ 

“ And Milton is capable of doing it ! ” said Sydney, 
talking to himself. 

“ But if they think the jury will be bound to believe that 
he stabbed her, no doubt they would go in for blackening 
her, and then they might cross-examine her about those 
other things.” 

“That is where the danger comes in.” 

Sydney’s words were equivalent to another question, but 
Johnson preserved a perfectly stolid face. It was all very 
well for him to advise his employer, and work up his cases 


2i8 


JSTAME AND FAME. 


for him if necessary. He was accustomed to do both these 
things, and his help had been invaluable to Sydney for 
several years past. But it was out of his line to display 
more confidence than was displayed in him, or to venture 
on delicate ground before he had received a lead. 

“ Yes, that’s were the danger comes in,” Sydney re- 
peated. “ I have reason to believe that there is a disposi- 
tion on their part to keep the lady’s name out of the case ; 
but they are not pledged to it ; and if they find things 
looking very bad for AValcott, they may show fight in that 
direction. Then there is Mr. Milton — no instructions can 
altogether gag counsel. I don’t know that I have ever 
given him cause of offence, but I have an instinctive feeling 
that he would rather enjoy putting me in a hole.” 

“ I think you would have the judge with you in any 
objection which you might take.” 

“ But it would be a misfortune, as things stand, even to 
have to take objection. Not only do I want to avoid the 
introduction of these extraneous matters, but I should 
strongly object to figure in any way as watching Miss 
Campion’s interests. It would be very bad indeed for me 
to have to do that. What I desire is that her interests 
should at no moment of the trial appear, even to those 
who know the circumstances, to be involved.” 

“ I quite see,” said Johnson. “And since you ask me, 
I don’t think you have much to fear. It is a delicate posi- 
tion, but both sides are of the same mind on the particular 
point, and it is most improbable that any indiscretion will 
occur. Prosecution and defence both want to avoid a 
certain pitfall — when they won’t struggle on the edge of it. 
What do you say, Mr. Campion, to setting forth in your 
opening statement all that is known about their previous 
quarrels, not concealing that the woman has been rather 
outrageous, in her foreign fashion, but quietly ignoring the 
fact of her jealousy ? ” 

“ That would be too bold — it would excite her, and pos- 
sibly move the defence to needless retorts.” 

“ As for exciting her, if she is thoroughly convinced that 
his conviction will spoil his chance of a divorce, she will 
take the whole thing coolly enough. My idea was that by 
opening fully, and touching on every point, you would 
escape the appearance of shirking anything. And at the 
same time you would be suggesting these motives for 


J\rAMJS and fame. 


219 

violence on Walcott’s part which, as you said, it would be 
their business to avoid.” 

“ There is a good deal in that,” said Sydney, reflectively. 

It is worth considering. Yes, two heads are certainly 
better than one. I see that I am instructed to ask about 
the attempt on her life at Aix-les-Bains. Why, what a 
rascal the man has been to her ! No wonder she is veno- 
mous now.” 

When the trial took place, the court was crowded with 
men and women who were anxious to see the principal 
actors in what was popularly known as the Surrey Street 
Mystery. They were both there — Alan pale and haggard 
from his long suspense, and Cora, much pulled down by 
what she had gone through. Of the two, she was, perhaps, 
the more interesting. Illness and loss of blood had done 
something to efface the dissipated look which had become 
habitual with her ; she was languid and soberly dressed ; 
and, moreover, she understood, as Mr. Johnson had said 
she would, that the conviction of her husband would put 
his divorce out of the question, at any rate for some time 
to come. So it was her business to look interesting, and 
injured, and quiet ; and she was cunning enough to play 
this part successfully. 

Alan, on the other hand, was completely indifferent as to 
the opinion which might be formed of him, and almost in- 
different as to the verdict. When he came into court he 
looked carefully round at the women who were present 
among the spectators, but, not seeing the one face which 
he had both dreaded and hoped to see, he fell back into 
his former lethargy, and took very little interest in the pro- 
ceedings. 

Sydney Campion opened the case for the prosecution in 
a business-like way. Just glancing at the unhappy relations 
which had existed between the prisoner and his wife for 
several years past, and freely admitting that there appeared 
to have been faults on both sides. He took the common- 
sense view of a man of the world speaking to men of the 
world, and did not ask the sympathies of the jury for the 
injured woman who had come straight from the hospital to 
that court, but only their impartial attention to the evidence 
which would be brought before them, and the expression 
of their deliberate opinion on the innocence or guilt of the 
accused. 


220 


NAME AND FAME. 


Noticing could be more fair than his observations — or so 
it appeared to the majority of Campion’s hearers. No 
doubt he had referred to the affair at Aix-les-Bains as 
though it were a matter of evidence, instead of mere alle- 
gation, and to the recent quarrels in England as though 
the “faults on both sides” had been clearly established. 
But he was supposed to be speaking in strict accordance 
with his instructions, and, of course, it was open to the 
defence to question anything which he had said. 

Then came the evidence for the prosecution, the sub- 
stance of which is already known to the reader ; but Cora’s 
account of the quarrel in Surrey Street was so ingeniously 
colored and distorted that Alan found himself listening 
with something like genuine amusement to the questions 
of counsel and the replies of his lying wife. 

“ And so,” said Mr. Campion, after she had spoken of 
her earnest appeal for the renewal of friendship, and of her 
husband’s insulting refusal, “you came to high words. 
Did you both keep the same positions whilst you were 
talking ? ” 

“ For a long time, until I lost patience, and then — yes, 
let me speak the whole truth — I threw a certain book at 
him.” 

Cora was on the point of saying why she threw the book, 
and whose name was on the title-page, but she checked 
herself in time. It had been very difficult to persuade her 
that her interests were safe in the hands of Lettice’s bro- 
ther, and even now she had ocasional misgivings on that 
point. Sydney went on quickly. 

“ A book lying close to your hand, you mean ? ” 

“ She said a certain book,” Mr. Milton interjected. 

“ You must make allowance for her,” said the judge. 
“ You know she is French, and you should follow her in 
two languages at once. No doubt she meant ‘ some book 
or other.’ The point has no importance.” 

“ And then,” said Sydney, “ you altered your posi- 
tions ? ” 

“ We stood facing each other.” 

“ What happened next ? ” 

“ Suddenly — I had not moved — an evil look came in his 
face. He sprang to the table, and took from the drawer 
a long, sharp poignard. I remembered it well, for he had 
it when we were married.” 


NAME AND FAME. 


221 


What did he do then ? ” 

He raised it in his hand ; but I had leaped upon him, 
and then began a terrible struggle.” 

The court was excited. Alan and his counsel were 
almost the only persons who remained perfectly cool. 

“ It was an unequal struggle ? ” 

“ Ah, yes ! I became exhausted, and sank to the 
ground.” 

“ Before or after you were stabbed ? ” 

“ He stabbed me as I fell.” 

“ Could it have been an accident? ” 

Impossible, for I fell backward, and the wound was in 
front.” 

After Sydney had done with his witness, Mr. Milton took 
her in hand ; and this was felt by every one to be the most 
critical stage of the trial. Milton did his best to shake 
Cora’s evidence, not without a certain kind of success. He 
turned her past life inside out, made her confess her infi- 
delity, her intemperance, her brawling in the streets, her 
conviction and fine at the Hammersmith Police Court. 
It was all he could do to restrain himself from getting her 
to acknowledge the reason of her visit to Maple Cottage ; 
but his instructions were too definite to be ignored. He 
felt that the introduction of Miss Campion’s name would 
have told in favor of his client — at any rate, with the jury ; 
and he would not have been a zealous pleader if he had 
not wished to take advantage of the point. 

By this time Cora was in a rage, and she damaged her- 
self with the jury by giving them a specimen of her ungov- 
ernable temper. The trial had to be suspended for a 
quarter of an hour, whilst she recovered from a fit of 
hysterics ; but it said much for her crafty shrewdness that 
she was able to adhere, in the main, to the story which she 
had told. She was severely cross-examined about the 
scene in Surrey Street, and especially about the dagger. 
She feigned intense surprise at being asked and pressed as 
to her having brought the weapon with her ; but Mr. 
Milton could not succeed in making her contradict her- 
self. 

Then the other witnesses were heard and counsel had an 
opportunity of enforcing the evidence on both sides. Mr. 
Milton was very severe on his learned friend for introducing 
matter in his opening speech, on which he did not intend 


322 


JVAM£ AND FAME, 


to call witnesses ; but in his own mind he had recognized 
the fact that there must be a verdict of guilty, and he 
brought out as strongly as he could the circumstances 
which he thought would weigh with the court in his client’s 
favor. Sydney was well content with the result of the 
trial as far as it had gone. There had been no reference of 
any kind to his sister Lettice ; and, as he knew that this was 
due in some measure to the reticence of the defence, it 
would have argued a want of generosity on his part to talk 
of the cruelty of the prisoner in stopping his wife’s allow- 
ance because she had molested him in the street. 

The judge summed up with great fairness. He picked 
out the facts which had been sworn to in regard to the 
actual receiving of the wound, which, he said, were com- 
patible with the theory of self-infliction, with that of wilful 
infliction by the husband, and with that of accident. As 
for the first theory, it would imply that the dagger had 
passed from the prisoner’s hands to those of his wife, and 
back again, and it seemed to be contradicted by the 
evidence of the landlady and the other lodger. Moreover, 
it was not even suggested by the defence, which relied 
upon the theory of accident. An accident of this kind 
would certainly be possible during a violent struggle for 
the possession of the dagger. Now the husband and wife 
virtually accused each other of producing this weapon and 
threatening to use it. It was for the jury to decide which 
of the two they would believe. There was a direct conflict 
of evidence, or allegation, and in such a case they must 
look at all the surrounding circumstances. It was not 
denied that the dagger belonged to the prisoner, but it was 
suggested in his behalf that the wife had purloined it some 
time before, and had suddenly produced it when she came 
to her husband’s apartments in Surrey Street. If that 
could be proved, then the woman had been guilty of per- 
jury, and her evidence would collapse altogether. Now 
there were some portions of her evidence which were most 
unsatisfactory. She had led a dissolute life, and w'as 
cursed with an ungovernable temper. But, on the other 
hand, she had told a consistent tale as to the occurrences 
of that fatal afternoon, and he could not go so far as to 
advise the jury to reject her testimony as worthless. 

His lordship then went over the remaining evidence, 
and concluded as follows : — 


NAME AND FAME, 


I 


223 


“ Gentlemen, I may now leave you to your difficult task. 
It is for you to say whether, in your judgment, the wound 
which this woman received was inflicted by herself or by 
her husband. If you find that it was inflicted by her 
husband, you must further decide, to the best of your 
ability, whether the prisoner wounded his wife in the 
course of a struggle, without intending it, or whether he 
did at the moment wittingly and purposely injure her. 
The rest you will leave to me. You have the evidence 
before you, and the constitution of your country imposes 
upon you the high responsibility of saying whether this 
man is innocent or guilty of the charge preferred against 
him.” 

The jury retired to consider their verdict, and after 
about three-quarters of an hour they returned into court. 

‘ Gentlemen of the jury,” said the clerk, “ are you 
agreed upon your verdict ? ” 

“ We are,” said the foreman. 

“ Do you find the prisoner guilty or not guilty ? ” 

“ We find him guilty of wounding, with intent to inflict 
grievous bodily harm.” 

Alan turned his face to the judge. The whole thing had 
been so precisely rehearsed in his mind that no mere detail 
would take him by surprise. He had expected the verdict, 
and it had come.. Now he expected the sentence ; let it 
come, too. It would hardly be worse than he was 
prepared for. 

To say that Mr. Justice Perkins was dissatisfied with the 
verdict would be going a little too far ; but he almost 
wished, when he heard it, that he had dwelt at greater 
length upon the untrustworthy character of Mrs. Walcott’s 
evidence. However, he had told the jury that this was a 
matter for their careful consideration ; and he had always 
been wont, even more than some of his brother judges, to 
leave full responsibility to his juries in matters of opinion 
and belief. 

“ Alan Walcott,” he said to the convicted man, “ you 
have had a fair trial before twelve of your peers, who have 
heard all the evidence brought before them, whether 
favorable to you or the reverse. In the exercise of their 
discretion, and actuated as they doubtless have been by the 
purest motives, they have found you guilty of the crime laid 
to your charge. No words of mine are necessary to make 


224 


NAME AND FAME. 


you appreciate this verdict. Whatever the provocation 
which you may have received from this miserable woman, 
however she may have forgotten her duty and tried you 
beyond endurance — and I think that the evidence was 
clear enough on these points — she was still your wife, and 
had a double claim upon yoir forbearance. You might 
well have been in a worse position. From the moment 
when you took that deadly weapon in your hands, every- 
thing was possible. You might have been charged with 
wilful murder, if she had died, or with intent to murder. 
You have been defended with great ability ; and if the 
jury believed, as they manifestly did, that your defence, so 
far as concerns the introduction of the dagger, could not 
be maintained, then they had no alternative but to find as 
they actually did find. It only remains for me to pass 
upon you such a sentence, within the discretion left me by 
the law, as seems to be appropriate to your offence, and 
that is that you be imprisoned and kept to hard labor for 
the term of six calendar months.” 

Then the prisoner was removed ; the court and the 
spectators dispersed to dine and amuse themselves ; the 
reporters rushed off to carry their last copy to the evening 
i newspapers; and the great tide of life swept by on its 
appointed c-^mrse. No foundering ship on its iron-bound 
coast, no broken heart that sinks beneath its waves, 
disturbs the law-abiding ebb and flow of the vast oceai^ 
of humanity. 


BOOK V. 


LOVE. 

•* Let us be unashamed of soul, 

As earth lies bare to heaven above ! 

How is it under our control 
To love or not to love ? ” 

Robert Browninci* 


• ■ 



NAAIE AND FAME. 


227 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

COURTSHIP. 

Busy as Sydney Campion was, at this juncture of iiis 
career, public affairs were, on the whole, less engrossing 
to him than usual ; for a new element had entered into his 
private life, and bade fair to change many of its currents. 

The rector’s education of his son and daughter had pro- 
duced effects which would have astonished him mightily 
could he have traced their secret workings, but which 
would have been matter of no surprise to a psychologist. 

He himself had been in the main an unsuccessful man, 
for, although he had enjoyed many years of peace and 
quiet in his country parish, he had never attained tiie 
objects with which he set out in life. Like many another 
man who has failed, his failure led him to value nothing on 
earth so highly as success. It is your fortunate man who 
can afford to slight life’s prizes. The lector of Angleford 
was never heard to utter soothing sentiments to the effect 
that “ life may succeed in that it seems to fail,” or that 
heaven was the place for those who had failed on earth. 
He did not believe it. Failure was terrible misfortune in 
his eyes : intellectual failure, greatest of all. Of course he 
wanted his children to be moral and religious ; it was 
indeed important that they should be orthodox and respec- 
table, if they wanted to get on in the world ; but he had .* 
no such passion of longing for their spiritual as he had for 
their mental development. Neither was it money that he . 
wished them to acquire, save as an adjunct; no man had 
more aristocratic prejudices against trade and pride of 
purse than Mr. Campion ; but he wanted them — and espe- 
cially he wanted Sydney — to show intellectual superiority 
to the rest of the world, and by that superiority to gain the 
good things of life. And of all these good things, the best 
was fame — the fame that means success. 


228 


JV^AME AND FAME, 


Thus, from the very beginning of Sydney's life, his father 
sedulously cultivated ambition in his soul, and taught him 
that failure meant disgrace. The spur that he applied to 
the boy acted with equal force on the girl, but with different 
results. For with ambition the rector sowed the seeds of 
a deadly egotism, and it found a favorable soil — at least in 
Sydney’s heart. That the boy should strive for himself 
and his own glory — that was the lesson the rector taught 
him ; and he ought not to have been surprised when, in 
later years, his son’s absorption in self gave him such bitter 
pain. 

Lettice, with her ambition curbed by love and pity, 
accepted the discipline of patience and self-sacrifice, set 
before her by the selfishness of other people j but Sydney 
gave free rein to his ambition and his pride. He could not 
make shift to content himself, as his father had done, with 
academic distinction alone. He wanted to be a leader of 
men, to take a foremost place in the world of men. He 
sometimes told himself that his father had equipped him to 
the very best of his power for the battle of life, and he was 
grateful to him for his care ; but he did not think very 
much about the sacrifices made for him by others. As a 
matter of fact, he thought himself worth them all. And for 
the prize he desired, he bartered away much that makes 
the completer man : for he extinguished many generous 
instincts and noble possibilities, and thought himself the 
gainer by their loss. 

In Lettice, the love of fame was also strong, but in a 
modified form. Her tastes were more literary than those 
of Sydney, but success was as sweet to her as to liim. The 
zest with which she worked was also in part due to the 
rector’s teaching ; but, by the strange workings-out of 
influence and tendency, it had chanced that the rector’s 
carelessness and neglect had been the factors that dis- 
ciplined a nature both strong and sweet into forgetfulness 
of self and absorption in work rather than its rewards. 

But already Nature had begun with Sydney Campion her 
grand process of amelioration, which she applies (when we 
let her have her way) to all men and women, most system- 
atically to those who need it most, securing an entrance 
to their souls by their very vices and weaknesses, and inva- 
riably supplying the human instrument or the effective 
circumstances which are best calculated to work her pur- 


J\rAM£ AND FAME. 


229 

pose. Such beneficent work of Nature may be called, as it 
was called by the older writers, the Hand of God. 

Sydney's great and overweening fault was that form of 

moral stupidity " which we term selfishness. Something 
of it may have come with the faculties which he had in- 
herited — in tendencies and inclinations mysteriously asso- 
ciated with his physical conformation ; much had been 
added thereto by the indulgence of his parents, by the 
pride of his university triumphs, and by the misfortune of 
his association in London with men who aggravated instead 
of modifying the faults of his natural disposition. The 
death of his father had produced a good effect for the time, 
and made him permanently more considerate of his mother’s 
and sister’s welfare. But a greater and still more per- 
manent effect seemed likely to be produced on him now, 
for he had opened his heart to the influences of a pure and 
elevating affection ; and for almost the first time there 
entered into his mind a gradually increasing feeling of con- 
trition and remorse for certain past phases of his life which 
he knew to be both unworthy in themselves and disloyal 
(if persisted in) to the woman whom he hoped to make his 
wife. By a determined effort of will, he cut one knot which 
he could not untie, but, his thoughts being still centred 
upon himself, he considered his own rights and needs 
almost entirely in the matter, and did not trouble himself 
much about the rights or needs of the other person con- 
cerned. He had broken free, and was disposed to 
congratulate himself upon his freedom ; vowing, mean- 
while, that he would never put himself into any bonds 
again except the safe and honorable bonds of marriage. 

Thus freed, he went down with Dalton to Angleford for 
the Easter recess, which fell late that year. He seemed 
particularly cheery and confident, although Dalton noticed 
a slight shade of gloom or anxiety upon his brow from time 
to time, and put it down to his uncertainty as to the Pyn- 
sents’ acceptance of his attentions to Miss Anna Pynsent, 
which were already noticed and talked about in society. 
Sydney was a rising man, but it was thought that Sir John 
might look higher for his beautiful young sister. 

The Parliamentary success of the new member for Vane- 
bury had been as great as his most reasonable friends 
anticipated for him, if not quite as meteoric as one or two 
flatterers had predicted. Meteoric success in the House of 


230 


JVAME AND FAME. 


Commons is not, indeed, so rare as it was twenty years ago, 
for the studied rhetoric which served our great-grandfathers 
in their ambitious pursuit of notoriety has given place to 
the arts of audacity, innovation, and the sublime courage 
of youthful insolence, which have occasionally worked 
wonders in our own day. 

Sydney had long been a close observer of the methods 
by which men gained the ear of the House, and he had 
learned one or two things that were very useful to him now 
that he was able to turn them to account. 

“ We have put the golden age behind us," he said one 
day to Dalton, with the assured and confident air which 
gave him so much of his power amongst men, “ and also 
the silver age, and the age of brass. We are living in the 
great newspaper age, and, if a public man wants to get into 
a foremost place before he has begun to lose his teeth, he 
must play steadily to the readers of the daily journals. In 
my small way I have done this already, and now I am in 
the House, I shall make it my business to study and humor, 
to some extent, the many-faced monster who reads and 
reflects himself in the press. In other times a man had to 
work himself up in Hansard and the Standing Orders, to 
watch and imitate the old Parliamentary hands, to listen for 
the whip and follow close at heel ; but, as I have often 
heard you say, we have changed all that. Whatever else a 
man may do or leave undone, he must keep himself in 
evidence ; it is more important to be talked and written 
about constantly than to be highly praised once in six 
months. I don’t know any other way of working the oracle 
than by doing or saying something every day, clever or 
foolish, which will have a chance of getting into print.” 

He spoke half in jest, yet he evidently more than half 
meant what he said. 

“ At any rate, you have some recent instances to support 
your theory,” Dalton said, with a smile. They were light- 
ing their cigars, preparatory to playing a fresh game of 
billiards, but Sydney was so much interested in the conver- 
sation, that, instead of taking up his cue, he stood with his 
back to the fire and continued it. 

“ Precisely so — there can be no doubt about it. Look 
at Flumley, and Warrington, and Middlemist — three of our 
own fellows, without going any further. What is there in 
them to command success, except not deserving it, and 


ATAME AND FAME, 


231 


knowing that they don’t? The modest merit and per- 
severance business is quite played out for any man of spirit. 
The only line to take in these days is that of cheek, pluck, 
and devil-may-care.” 

Do you know, Campion, you have grown very cynical 
of late?” said Brooke Dalton, rather more gravely than 
usual. “ I have been rather disposed to take some blame 
to myself for my share in the heartless kind of talk that 
used to go on at the Oligarchy. I and Pynsent were your 
sponsors there, I remember. You may think this an odd 
thing to say, but the fact is I am becoming something of a 
fogy, I suppose, in my ideas, and I daresay you’ll tell me 
that the change is not for the better.” 

“ I don’t know about that,” said Sydney, lightly. Per- 
haps it is for the better, after all. You see, you are nut 
laying yourself out to persuade your fellow-men that you 
can cure them of all the ills that flesh is heir to ! But I’ll 
tell you what I have noticed, old man, and what others 
beside me have noticed. We miss you up in town. You 
never come to the Club now. The men say you must be 
ill, or married, or breaking up, or under petticoat govern- 
ment — all stuff and nonsense, you know ; but that is what 
they say.” 

“They can’t be all right,” said Brooke, with a rather 
embarrassed laugh, “but some of them may be.” He made 
a perfectly needless excursion across the room to fetch a 
cue from the rack that he did not want, while Sydney 
smoked on and watched him with amused and rather curious 
eyes. “ I suppose I am a little under petticoat govern- 
ment,” said Dalton, examining his cue with interest, and 
then laying it down on the table, “ as you may see for 
yourself. But my sister manages everything so cleverly 
that I don’t mind answering to the reins and letting her 
get me well in hand.” 

“ No one ever had a better excuse for submitting to 
petticoat government. But you know what is always thought 
of a man when he begins to give up his club.” 

“ I am afraid it can’t be helped. Then again — perhaps 
there is another reason. Edith, you know, has a little place 
of her own, about a mile from here, and she tells me that 
she will not keep house for me much longer — even to 
rescue me from club life. The fact is, she wants me to 
marry.” 


232 


NAME AND FAME. 


“ Oh, now I see it all ; you have let the cat out of the 
bag ! And you are going to humor her in that, too ? ” 

“ Well, I hardly think I should marry just to humor my 
sister. But — who knows ? She is always at me, and a con- 
tinual dropping ” 

“ Wears away the stony heart of Brooke Dalton. Why, 
what a converted clubbist you will be ! ” 

“ There was always a corner of my heart. Campion, in 
which I rebelled against our bachelor’s paradise at the Oli- 
garchy — and you would have opened your eyes if you could 
have seen into that corner through the smoke and gossip 
of the old days in Pall Mall.” 

“ The old days of six months ago ! ” said Sydney, good- 
humoredly. 

“ Do you know that Edith and I are going abroad next 
week ? ” 

The question sounded abrupt, but Dalton had not the air 
of a man who wants to turn the conversation. 

“ No,” said Sydney, in some surprise. “ Where are you 
going ? ” 

“ Well, Edith wants to go to Italy, and I should not 
wonder if we were to come across a cousin of mine, Mrs. 
Hartley, who is now at Florence. You know her, I be- 
lieve?” 

I hardly know her, but I have heard a good deal about 
her. She has been very kind to my sister — nursed her 
through a long illness, and looked after her in the most 
generous manner possible. I am under great obligations 
to Mrs. Hartley. I hope you will say so to her if you 
meet.” 

“All right. Anything else I can do for you? No doubt 
we shall see your sister. We are old friends, you know. 
And I have met her several limes at my cousin’s this winter.” 
“ At those wonderful Sunday gatherings of hers ? ” 

“ I dropped in casually one day, and found Miss Cam- 
pion there — and I admit that I went pretty regularly after- 
wards, in the hope of improving the acquaintance. If I 
were to tell you that I am going to Florence now for pre- 
cisely the same reason, would you, as her brother, wish me 
good speed, or advise me to keep away ? ” 

“ Wish you good speed ? ” 

“ Why, yes ! Is not my meaning clear ? ” 

“ My dear Dalton, you have taken me absolutely by 
surprise,” said Sydney, laying down his cigar. “ But, if I 


J\rAAfE AND FAME, 


233 


understand you aright, I do wish you good speed, and with 
all my heart.” 

“ Mind,” said Dalton hurriedly, “ I have not the least 
idea what my reception is likely to be. I’m afraid I have 
not the ghost of a chance.” 

“ I hope you will be treated as you deserve,” said Syd- 
ney, rather resenting this constructive imputation on his 
sister’s taste. Privately, he thought there was no doubt 
about the matter, and was delighted with the prospect of so 
effectually crushing the gossip that still hung about Lettice’s 
name. The memory of Alan Walcott’s affairs was strong in 
the minds of both men as they paused in their conversation, 
but neither chose to allude to him in words. 

“ I could settle down here with the greatest pleasure 
imaginable, undersome circumstances,” said Brooke Dalton, 
with a faint sriiile irradiating his fair, placid, well-featured 
countenance. “ Do you think your sister would like to be 
so near her old home ? ” 

“ I think she would consider it an advantage. She was 
always fond of Angleford. Your wife will be a happy 
woman, Dalton, whoever she may be — sua si bona norit ! ” 

“ Well, I’m glad I spoke to you,” said Brooke, with an 
air of visible relief. “ Edith knows all about it, and is 
delighted. How the time flies ! We can’t have a game 
before dinner, I’m afraid. Must you go to-morrow. Cam- 
pion ? ” 

“ It is necessary. The House meets at four ; and be- 
sides, I have arranged to meet Sir John Pynsent earlier in 
the day. I want to have a little talk with him.” 

“ To put his fate to the touch, I suppose,” meditated 
Brooke, glancing at Sydney’s face, which had suddenly 
grown a little grave. “ I suppose it would be premature 
to say anything — I think,” he said aloud, “ that we almost 
ought to be dressing now.” 

Yes, we’ve only left ourselves ten minutes. I say, 
Dalton, now I think of it. I’ll give you a letter to my sister, 
if you’ll be kind enough to deliver it.” 

“ All right.” 

“ There will be no hurry about it. Give it to her when- 
ever you like. I think it would be serviceable, and I sup- 
pose you can trust my discretion ; but, understand me — 
you can deliver the letter or not, as seems good to you 
when you are with her. I’ll write it to-night, and let you 
have it to-morrow morning before I go.” 


234 


NAM£ AND FAME. 


It would not have occurred to Brooke Dalton to ask for 
a letter of recommendation when he went a-courting, but 
Sydney’s words did not strike him as incongruous at the 
time, and he was simple enough to believe that a brother’s 
influence would weigh with a woman of Lettice’s calibre in 
the choice of a })artner for life. 

Sydney delivered tiie letter into his keeping next day, 
and then went up to town, where he was to meet Sir John 
Pynsent at the Club. 

Dalton had been mistaken when he conjectured that 
Sydney’s intentions were to consult Sir John about his pre- 
tension to Miss Pynsent’s hand. Sydney had not yet got 
so far. He had made up his mind that he wanted Anna 
Pynsent for a wife more than he had ever wanted any 
woman in the world ; and the encouragement that he had 
received from Sir John and Lady Pynsent made him con- 
scious that they were not very likely to deny his suit. And 
yet he paused. It seemed to him that he would like a 
longer interval to pass before he asked Nan Pynsent to 
marry him — a longer space in which to put away certain 
memories and fears which became more bitter to him every 
time that they recurred. 

It was simply a few words on political matters that he 
wanted with Sir John ; but they had the room to themselves, 
and Sydney was hardly surprised to find that the conversa- 
tion had speedily drifted round to personal topics, and that 
the baronet was detailing his plans for the autumn, and 
asking Sydney to form one of his house-party in September. 
Sydney hesitated in replying. He thought to himself that 
he should not care to go unless he was sure that Miss 
Pynsent meant to accept him. Perhaps Sir John attributed 
his hesitation to its real cause, for he said, more heartily 
than ever. 

“ We all want you, you know. Nan is dying to talk over 
your constituents with you. She has got some Workmen’s 
Club on hand that she wants the member to open, with an 
appropriate speech, so you had better prepare yourself.” 

“ Miss Pynsent is interested in the Vanebury workmen. 
I shall be delighted to help at any time.” 

“ Too much interested,” said Sir John, bluntly. I’ll tell 
her she’ll be an out and out Radical by and by. You know 
she has a nice little place of her own just outside Vanebury, 
and she vows she’ll go and live there when she is 


AND FAME. 


235 


twenty-one, and work for the good of the people. My 
authority over her will cease entirely when she is of age.” 

“ But not your influence,” said Sydney. 

“ Well — I don’t know that I have very much. The proper 
person to influence Nan will be her husband, when she has 
one.” 

“ If I were not a poor man — — ” Sydney began impul- 
sively, and then stopped short. But a good-humored curl 
of Sir John’s mouth, an inquiring twinkle in his eye, told 
him that he must proceed. So, in five minutes, his proposal 
was made, and a good deal earlier than he had expected it 
to be. It must be confessed that Sir John had led him on. 
And Sir John was unfeignedly delighted, though he tried 
to pretend doubt and indifference. 

“ Of course I can’t answer for my sister, and she is full 
young to make her choice. But I can assure you. Campion, 
there’s no man living to whom I would sooner see her 
married than to yourself,” he said at the conclusion of the 
interview. And then he asked Sydney to dinner, and went 
home to pour the story into the ears of his wife. 

Lady Pynsent was not so much pleased as was he. Slie 
had had visions of a title for her sister-in-law, and thought 
that Nan would be throwing herself away if she married 
Sydney Campion, although he was a rising man, and would 
certainly be solicitor-general before long. 

“ Well, Nan will have to decide for herself,” said Sir John, 
evading his wife’s remonstrances. “ After all, I couldn’t 
refuse the man for her, could I ? ” He did not say that he 
had tried to lead the backward lover on. ^ 

“Yes, you could,” said Lady Pynsent. “You could 
have told him it was cflit of the question. But the fact is, 
you want it. You have literally thrown Nan at his head 
ever since he stayed with us last summer. You are so 
devoted to your friend, Mr. Campion ! ” 

“ You will see that he is a friend to be proud of,” said 
Sir John, with conviction. “ He is one of the cleverest 
men of the day, he will be one of the most distinguished. 
Any woman may envy Nan ” 

“ If she accepts him,” said Lady Pynsent. 

“ Don’t you think she will? ” 

“ I have no idea. In some ways, Nan is so childish ; in 
others, she is a woman grown. I can never answer for 
Nan. She takes such idealistic views of things.” . 


MAME AND FAME, 


236 

“ She’s a dear, good girl,” said Sir John, rather objecting 
to this view of Nan’s character. 

“ My dear John, of course she is ! She’s a darling. But 
she is quite impracticable sometimes, as you know.” 

Yes, Sir John knew. And for that very reason, he wanted 
Nan to marry Sydney Campion. 

He warned his wife against speaking to the girl on the 
subject : he had promised Campion a fair field, and he was 
to speak as soon as he got the opportunity, “ He’s com- 
ing to dinner next Wednesday ; he may get his chance 
then.” 

But Sydney got it before Wednesday. He found that 
the Pynsents were invited to a garden party — a social 
function which he usually avoided with care — for which 
he also had received a card. The hostess lived at Fulham, 
and he knew that her garden was large and shady, sloping 
to the river, and full of artfully contrived sequestered 
nooks, where many a flirtation was carried on. 

“ She won’t like it so well as Culverley,” said Sydney to 
himself, with a half smile, “ but it will be better than a 
drawing-room. 

He did not like to confess to himself how nervous he 
felt. His theory had always been that a man should not 
propose to a woman unless he is sure that he will be ac- 
cepted. He W'as not at all sure about Nan’s feelings towards 
him, and yet he was going to propose. He told himself 
again that he had not meant to speak so soon — that if he 
saw any signs of distaste he should cut short his declara- 
tion altogether and defer it to a more convenient season ; 
but all the same, he knew m his own heart that he would 
be horribly disappointed if fate de^iiived him of the chance 
of a decisive interview with Anna Pynsent. 

Those who saw him at Lady Maliphant’s party that 
afternoon, smiling, handsome, debonnair, as usual fault- 
lessly attired, with a pleasant word for everyone he met 
and an eye that was perfectly cool and careless, would have 
been amazed could they have known the leap that his heart 
gave when he caught sight of Lady Pynsent’s great scarlet 
parasol and trailing black laces, side by side with Nan’s 
dainty white costume. The girl wore an embroidered 
muslin, with a yellow sash tied loosely round her slender 
waist; the graceful curve of her broad-brimmed hat, fast- 
ened high over one ear like a cavalier’s, was softened by 


NAME AND FAME. 


^37 


drooping white ostrich feathers ; her lace parasol had a 
knot of yellow ribbon at one side, to match the tint of her 
sash. Her long tan gloves and the Marechal Niel roses at 
her neck were finishing touches of the picture which Syd- 
ney was incompetent to grasp in detail, although he felt 
its charm on a whole. The sweet, delicate face, with its 
refined features and great dark eyes, was one which might 
well cause a man to barter all the world for love ; and, in 
Sydney’.s case, it happened that to gain its owner meant to 
gain the world as well. It spoke well for Sydney’s genuine 
affection that he had ceased of late to think of the worldly 
fortune that Nan might bring him, and remembered only 
that he wanted Nan Pynsent for herself. 

She greeted him with a smile. She had grown a little 
quieter, a little more conventional in manner of late : he 
did not like her any the worse for that. But, although she 
(lid not utter any word of welcome, he fancied from her 
face that she was glad to see him ; and it was not long 
before he found some pretext for strolling off with her to a 
shadowy and secluded portion of the grounds. Even then 
he was not sure whether he would ask her to be his wife 
that day, or whether he would postpone the decisive mo- 
ment a little longer. Nan’s bright, unconscious face was 
very charming, undisturbed by fear or doubt : what if he 
brought a shadow to it, a cloud that he could not dispel ? 
For one of the very few times in his life, Sydney did not 
feel sure of himself. 

“ Where are you going this summer ? ” she asked him, as 
they stood beside the shining water, and watched the 
eddies and ripples of the stream. 

“ I usually go abroad. But Sir John has been asking me 
to Culverley again.” 

“ You do not mean to go to Switzerland, then ? You 
spoke of it the other day.” 

“ No, J think not. I do not want to be so far away from 
r— from London.” 

“ You are so fond of your work : you do not like to be 
parted from it,” she said smiling. 

“ I am fond of it, certainly. I have a good deal to do.” 

“Oh!” said Nan, innocently, “I thought people who 
were in Parliament did nothing but Parliamentary business 
'—like John.” 

“ I have other things to do as well. Miss Pynsent. And 
m Parliament even there is a good deal to study and pre- 


NAME AND FAME. 


238 

pare for, if one means to take up a strong position from 
the beginning.” 

“ Which, I am sure, you mean to do,” she said quickly. 

“ Thank you. You understand me^ perfectly — you un- 
derstand my ambitions, my hopes and fears ” 

She did not look as if she understood him at all. 

“Are you ambitious, Mr. Campion? But what do you 
wish for more than you have already ? ” 

“ Many things. Everything.” 

“ Power, I suppose,” said Nan doubtfully ; then, with a 
slightly interrogative intonation — “ and riches ? ” 

“ Well— yes.” 

“ But one’s happiness does not depend on either.” 

“ It rarely exists without one or the other.” 

“ I don’t know. I should like to live in a cottage and 
be quite poor, and bake the bread, and work hard all day, 
and sleep soundly all night ” 

“ Yes, if it were for the sake of those you loved,” said 
Sydney, venturing to look at her significantly. 

Nan nodded, and a faint smile curved her lips : her eyes 
grew tender and soft. 

“ Can youmot imagine another kind of life ? where you 
spent yourself equally for those whom you loved and who 
loved you, but in happier circumstances? a life where two 
congenial souls met and worked together? Could you not 
be happy almost anywhere with the one — the man — you 
loved ? ” 

Sydney’s voice had sunk low, but his eyes expressed 
more - passion than his voice, which was kept sedulously 
steady. Nan was more aware of the look in his eyes than 
of the words he actually used. She cast a half-frightened 
look at him, and then turned rosy-red. 

“ Could you be happy with me ? ” he asked her, still 
speaking very gently. “ Nan, I love you — I love you with 
all my heart. Will you be my wife ? ” 

And as she surrendered her hands to his close clasp, and 
looked half smilingly, half timidly into his face, he knew 
that his cause was won. 

But, alas, for Sydney, that at the height of his love- 
triumph, a bitter drop of memory should suddenly poison 
his pleasure at the fount 1 


I^rAM£ AND FAME. 


239 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

A SLUMBERING HEART. 

Time had hung heavily on Lettice’s hands during the first 
month or two of her stay on the Continent. No one could 
have been kinder to her than Mrs. Hartley, more consider- 
ate of her needs and tastes, more anxious to please and 
distract her. But the recovery of her nerves from the 
shock and strain to which they had been subjected was a 
slow process, and her mind began to chafe against the 
restraint which the weakness of the body imposed upon 
it. 

The early spring brought relief. Nature repairs her own 
losses as she punishes her own excess. Lettice had suf- 
fered by the abuse of her energy and power of endurance, 
but three months of idleness, restored the balance. Tlie 
two women lived in a small villa on the outskirts of Flo- 
rence, and when they were not away from home, in quest 
of art or music, scenery or society, they read and talked to 
each other, or recorded their impressions on paper. Mrs. 
Hartley had many friends in England, with whom she was 
wont to exchange many thousand words ; and these had 
the benefit of the ideas which a winter in Florence had 
excited in her mind. Lettice’s confidant was her diary, 
and she sighed now and then to think that there was no 
one in the world to whom she could write the inmost 
thoughts of her heart, and from whom she could expect an 
intelligent and sympathetic response. 

No doubt she wrote to Clara, and gave her long accounts 
of what she saw and did in Italy; but Clara was absorbed 
in the cares of matrimony and motherhood. She had 
nothing but actualities to offer in return for the idealities 
which were Lettice’s mental food and drink. This had 
always been the basis of their friendship ; and it is a basis 
on which many a firm friendship has been built. 

Lettice had already felt the elasticity of returning health 
in every limb and vein when the news reached her of the 


240 


NAME AND FAME, 


success of her novel; and that instantly completed the 
cure. Her publisher wrote to her in high spirits, at each 
demand for a new edition, and he forwarded to her a hand- 
some cheque “ on account,” which gave more eloquent tes- 
timony of his satisfaction than anything else. Graham 
sent her, through Clara, a bundle of reviews which he had 
been at the pains of cutting out of the papers, and Clara 
added many criticisms, mostly favorable, whicli she had 
heard from her husband and his friends. Lettice had a 
keen appetite for praise, as, for pleasure of every kind, and 
she was intoxicated by the good things which were spoken 
of her. 

There, dear,” she said to Mrs. Hartley one morning, 
spreading out before her friend the cheque which she had 
just received from Mr. MacAlpine, you told me that my 
stupid book had given me nothing more than a nervous 
fever, but this has come also to pay the doctor’s bill. Is 
it not a great deal of money? What a lucky thing that I 
went in for half profits, and did not take the paltry fifty 
pounds which they offered me ? ” 

Ah, you need not twit me with what I said before I 
knew what your book was made of,” said Mrs. Hartley 
affectionately. “ How was I to know that you could write 
a novel, when you had only told me that you could trans- 
late a German philosopher ? The two things do not sound 
particularly harmonious, do they? ” 

“ I suppose I must have made a happy hit with my sub- 
ject, though I never thought I had whilst I was writing. I 
only went straight on, and had not the least idea that 
people would find much to like in it. Nor had Mr. Mac- 
Alpine either, for he did not seem at all anxious to publish 
it.” 

“ It was in you, my darling, and would come out. You 
have discovered a mine, and I daresay you can dig as 
much gold out of it as will suffice to make you happy.” 

“ Now, what shall we do with this money ? We must 
have a big treat ; and I am going to manage and pay for 
everything myself, starting from to-day. Shall it be Rome, 
or the Riviera, or the Engadine ; or what do you say to 
returning by way of Germany? I do so long to see the 
Germans at home.” 

Mrs. Hartley was downcast at once. 

“ The first thing you want to do with your wealth,” she 
said, “is to make me feel uncomfortable ! Have we not 


NAME AND FAME, 


241 


been happy together these six months, and can you not 
leave well alone? You know that I am a rich woman, 
through no credit of my own— for everything I have came 
from my husband. If you talk of spending your money on 
anyone but yourself, I shall think that you are pining for 
independence again, and we may as well pack up our 
things and get home.” 

“ Oh dear, what have I said ? I did not mean it, my 
dearest friend — my best friend in the world ! I won’t say 
anything like it again : but I must go out and spend some 
money, or I shall not believe in my good fortune. Can you 
lend me ten pounds ? ” 

“ Yes, that I can ! ” 

“ Then let us put our things on, and go into paradise.” 

“ What very dissolute idea, to be sure ! But come along. 
If you will be so impulsive, I may as well go to take care 
of you.” 

So they went out together — the woman of twenty-six and 
the woman of sixty, and roamed about the streets of Flo- 
rence like a couple of school-girls. And Lettice bought 
her friend a brooch, and herself a ring in memory of the 
day ; and as the ten pounds would not cover it she bor- 
rowed fifteen ; and then they had a delightful drive through 
the noble squares, past many a venerable palace and lofty 
church, through richly storied streets, and across a bridge 
of marble to the other side of the Arno ; so onward till 
they came to the wood-enshrouded valley, where the trees 
were breaking into tender leafage, every shade of green 
commingling with the blue screen of the Apennines 
beyond. Back again they came into the city of palaces, 
which they had learned to love, and alighting near the 
Duomo sought out a. pasticceria in a street hard by, and 
ate a genuine school-girl’s meal. 

“ It has been the pleasantest day of my life here ! ” said 
Lettice as they reached home in the evening. “ I have not 
had a cloud upon my conscience.” 

“ And it has made the old woman young,” said Mrs. 
Hartley, kissing her friend upon the cheek. “ Oh, why are 
you not my daughter ! ” 

“ You would soon have too much of me if I were your 
daughter. But tell me what a daughter would have done 
for you, and let me do it while I can.” 


16 


242 


A^JM£ AND FAME. 


“ It is not to do, but to be. Be just what you are and 
never desert me, and then I will forget that I was once a 
childless woman.” 

So the spring advanced, and drew towards summer. 
And on the first of May Mrs. Hartley, writing to her cousin, 
Edith Dalton, the most intimate of all her confidants, gave 
a glowing account of Lettice. 

“ My sweetheart here (she wrote) is cured at last. Three 
months have gone since she spoke about reluming to 
England, and I believe she is thoroughly contented. She 
has taken to writing again, and seems to be fairly absorbed 
in her work, but you may be sure that I shall not let her 
overdo it. The death of her mother, and the break-up of 
their home, probably severed all the ties that bound her to 
London ; and, so far as I can see, not one of the fn remains. 
I laughed to read that you were jealous of her. When 
you and Brooke come here I am certain you will like her 
every bit as much as I do. What you tell me of Brooke is 
rather a surprise, but I know you must be very happy 
about it. To have had him with you for six months at a 
time, during which he has never once been up to his club, 
is a great triumph, and speaks volumes for your clever 
management, as well as for your care and tenderness. We 
shall see him married and domesticated before a year has 
passed ! I am impatient for you both to come. Do not 
let anything prevent you.” 

It was quite true that Lettice had set to work again, and 
that she appeared to have overcome the home-sickness 
which at one time made her long to get back to Lon- 
don. Restored hea^lth made her feel more satisfied with 
her surroundings, and a commission for a new story had 
found her just in the humor to sit down and begin. She 
was penetrated by the beauty of the Tuscan city which had 
been her kindly nurse, which was now her fount of inspira- 
tion and inexhaustible source of new ideas. A plot, char- 
acters, scenery, stage, impressed themselves on her im- 
agination as she wandered amongst the stones and can- 
vasses of Florence ; and they grew upon her more and more 
distinctly every day, as she steeped herself in the spirit of 
the place and time. She would not go back to the pic- 
turesque records of other centuries but took her portraits 
from men and women of the time, and tried to recognize 
in them the descendants of the artists, scholars, philoso- 


JVAME AND FAME, 


.243 


phers, and j^atn’ots, who have shed undying fame on the 
queen-city of northern Italy. 

Entirely buried in her work, and putting away from her 
all that might interfere with its performance, she forgot for 
a time both herself and others. If she was selfish in her 
isolation it was with the selfishness of one who for art’s 
sake is prepared to abandon her ease and pleasure in the 
laborious pursuit of an ideal. Mrs. Hartley was content 
to leave her for a quarter of the day in the solitude of her 
own room on condition of sharing her idleness or recrea- 
tion during the rest of their waking hours. 

Had Lettice forgotten Alan \Valcott at this crisis in the 
lives of both ? When Mrs. Hartley was assuring her 
cousin that all the ties which had bound the girl to Lon- 
don were severed, Alan was expiating in prison the crime 
of which he had been convicted, which, in his morbid 
abasement and despair he was almost ready to confess that 
he had committed. Was he, indeed, as he had not very 
sincerely prayed to be, forgotten by the woman he loved? 

It is no simple question for her biographer to answer off- 
hand. Lettice, as we know, had admitted into her heart 
a feeling of sympathetic tenderness for Alan, which, 
under other circumstances, she would have accepted as 
worthy to dominate her life and dictate its moods and 
duties. But the man for whom this sympathy had been 
aroused was so situated that he could not ask her for her 
love, whilst she could not in any case have given it if she 
had been asked. Instinctively she had shut her eyes 
to that which she might have read in her own soul, 
or in his, if she had cared or dared to look. She 
had the book before her, but it was closed and sealed. 
Where another woman might have said, “ I must forget 
him — there is a barrier between us which neither can 
cross,” she said nothing; but all her training, her instinct, 
her delicate feeling, even her timidity and self-distrust, led 
her insensibly to shun the paths of memory which would 
have brought her back to the prospect that had allured 
and alarmed her. 

Be it remembered that she knew nothing of his later 
troubles. She had heard nothing about him since she left 
England ; and Mrs. Hartley, who honestly believed that 
Alan had practically effaced himself from their lives by his 
own rash act, was sufficiently unscrupulous to keep her 
friend in ignorance of what had happened. 


244 


JVAA/E AND FAME. 


So Lettice did not mention Alan, did not keep him in 
her mind or try to recall him by any active exercise of her 
memory ; and in this sense she had forgotten him. Time 
would show if the impression, so deep and vivid in its 
origin, was gradually wearing away, or merely hidden out 
of sight. No wonder if Mrs. Hartley thought that she was 
cured. 

Lettice heard of the arrival of the Daltons without any 
other feeling than half-selfish misgiving that her work was 
to be interrupted at a critical moment, when her mind was 
full of the ideas on which her story depended for its suc- 
cess. She had created by her imagination a little world of 
human beings, instinct with life and endowed with vivid 
character ; she had dwelt among her creatures, guided 
their steps and inspired their souls, loved them and walked 
with them from day to day, until they were no mere 
})uppets dancing to the pull of a string, but real and 
veritable men and women. She could not have de- 
serted them by any * spontaneous act of her own, and 
if she was to be torn away from the world which hung 
upon her fiat, she could not submit to the banishment with- 
out at least an inward lamentation. Art spoils her vota- 
ries for the service of society, and society, as a rule, takes 
its revenge by despising or patronizing the artist whilst 
competing for the possession of his works. 

Brooke Dalton and his sister were lodged in an old 
palace not far from Mrs. Hartley’s smaller and newer resi- 
dence ; and frequent visits between the two couples soon 
put them all on terms of friendly intimacy. Lettice had 
always thought well of Mr. Dalton. He reminded her of 
Angleford, and the happy days of her early youth. In 
London he had been genial with her, and attentive, and 
considerate in every sense, so that she had been quite at 
her ease with him. They met again without constraint, and 
under circumstances which enabled Dalton to put forth 
his best efforts to please her, without exciting any alarm 
in her mind, to begin with. 

Edith Dalton captivated Lettice af once. She was a 
handsome woman of aristocratic type and breeding, tall, 
slender, and endowed with the graceful manners of one 
who has received all the polish of refined society without 
losing the simplicity of nature. A year or two younger 
than her brother, she had reached an age when most 


ATAA/E AND FAME, 


245 


women have given up the thought of marriage ; and in her 
case there was a sad and sufficient reason for turning her 
back upon such joys and consolations as a woman may 
reasonably expect to find in wedded life. She had been 
won in her girlhood by a man thoroughly fitted to make 
her happy — a man of wealth and talent, and honorable 
service in the State ; who, within a week of their marriage 
day, had been thrown from his horse and killed. Edith 
had not in so many words devoted herself to perpetual 
maidenhood ; but that was the outcome of the great sorrow 
of her youth. She had remained single without growing 
morose, and her sweet and gentle moods endeared her to 
all who came to know her. 

With such a companion Lettice was sure to become inti- 
mate ; or at any rate, she was sure to respond with warmth 
to the kindly feeling displayed for her. Yet there were 
many points of unlikeness between her and Edith Dalton. 
She too was refined, but it was the refinement of mental 
culture rather than the moulding of social influences. She 
too retained the simplicity of nature, but it was combined 
with an outspoken candor which Edith had been taught to 
shun. Where Lettice would be ready to assert herself, 
and claim the rights of independence, Edith would shrink 
back with fastidious alarm ; where the one was fitted to 
wage the warfare of life, and, if need be, to stand out as a 
champion or pioneer of her sex, the other would have suf- 
fered acutely if she had been forced into any kind of 
aggressive combat. 

When Brooke told his sister that he had met a woman 
whom he could love, she was unfeignedly glad, and never 
thought of inquiring whether the woman in question was 
rich, or well-connected, or moving in good society. Per- 
haps she took the last two points for granted, and no doubt 
she would have been greatly disappointed if she had found 
that Brooke’s choice had been otherwise than gentle and 
refined. But when she saw Lettice she was satisfied, and 
set herself by every means in her power to please and 
charm her new friend. 

As Mrs. Hartley knew and backed the designs of the 
Daltons, Lettice was not very fairly matched against the 
wiles and blandishments of the three. Brooke Dalton, in- 
deed, felt himself in a rather ridiculous position, as though 
he were proceeding to the siege of Lettice’s heart relying 


246 


JVAAIE AND FAME, 


upon the active co-operation of his sister and cousin, to 
say nothing of her brother’s letter which he carried in his 
pocket. But, after all, this combination was quite fortui- 
tous. He had not asked for assistance, and he knew very 
well that if such assistance were too openly given it would 
do his cause more harm than good. 

Dalton was one of those good-tempered men who are 
apt to get too much help in spite of themselves from the 
women-folk of their family and household, who are sup- 
posed to need help when they do not, and who have only 
themselves to thank for their occasional embarrassment of 
wealth in this particular form. Nature intends such men 
to be wife-ridden and happy. It is not alien to their dis- 
position that they should spend their earlier manhood, as 
Dalton had done, amongst men who take life too easily and 
lightly ; but they generally settle down before the whole 
of their manhood is wasted, and then a woman can lead 
them with a thread of silk. 

It was for Lettice, if she would, to lead this gentle- 
hearted English squire, to be the mistress of his house and 
fair estate, to ensure the happiness of this converted bache- 
lor of Pall Mall, and to bid good-bye to the cares and 
struggles of the laborious life on which she had entered. 

The temptation was put before her. Would she dally 
with it, and succumb to it ? And could anyone blame her 
if she did ? 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

“ IT WAS A LIE ! ” 

Up the right-hand slopes of the Val d’Arno, between Flo- 
rence and Fiesole, the carriage-road runs for some distance 
comparatively broad and direct between stone walls and 
cypress-hedges, behind which the passer-by gets glimpses 
of lovely terraced gardens, of the winding river far below 
his feet, of the purple peaks of the Carrara mountains far 
away. But when the road reaches the base of the steep 
hill on which the old Etruscans built their crow’s-nest of a 
city — where Catiline gathered his host of desperadoes, and 
under whose shadow, more than three centuries later, the 
last of the Roman deliverers, himself a barbarian, hurled 


ATAME AND FAME, 


247 


back the hordes of Radegast — it winds a narrow and tor- 
tuous way from valley to crest, from terrace to terrace, 
until the crowning stage is reached. 

Here in the shadow of the old Etruscan fortifications, 
the wayfarer might take his stand and look down upon the 
wondrous scene beneath him. “ Never,” as Hallam says, 
“ could the sympathies of the soul with outward nature be 
more finely touched ; never could more striking suggestions 
be presented to the philosopher and the statesman ” 
than in this Tuscan cradle of so much of our modern civil- 
ization, which even the untraveled islander of the northern 
seas can picture in his mind and cherish witli lively affec- 
tion. For was it not on this fertile soil of Etruria that the 
art and letters of Italy had birth? and was it not in fair 
Florence, rather than in any other modern city, that they 
were born again in the fulness of time ? Almost on tire 
very spot where Stilicho vainly stemmed the advancing 
tide which was to reduce Rome to a city of ruins, the new 
light dawned after a millennium of darkness. And there, 
from the sacred walls of Florence, Dante taught our ear- 
lier and later poets to sing ; Galileo reawoke slumbering 
science with a trumpet-call which frightened the Inquisition 
out of its senses j Michael Angelo, Raffaelle, Da Vinci, Del 
Sarto created models of art for all succeeding time. Never 
was there in any region of the world such a focus of illu- 
minating fire. Never will there live a race that does not 
own its debt to the great seers and creators of Tuscany. 

Late on an autumn afternoon, towards the close of the 
September of 1882, four English friends have driven out 
from Florence to Fiesole, and, after lingering for a time in 
the strange old city, examining the Cathedral in the Piazza 
and the remains of the Roman Theatre in the garden behind 
it, they came slowly down the hill to the beautiful old villa 
which was once the abode of Lorenzo the Magnificent. 
The carriage waited for them in the road, but here, on the 
terrace outside the villa gates, they rested awhile, feasting 
their eyes upon the lovely scene which lay below. 

They had visited the place before, but not for some 
months, for they had been forced away from Florence 
by the fierce summer heat, and had spent some time in 
Siena and Pistoja, finally taking up their residence in a 
cool and secluded nook of the Pistojese Apennines. But 
when autumn came, and the colder mountain breezes began 


248 


J\rAM£ AND FAME. 


to blow, Mrs. Hartley hastened her friends back to her 
comfortable little Florentine villa, proposing to sojourn 
there for the autumn, and then to go with Lettice and per- 
haps with the Daltons also, on to Rome. 

“ We have seen nothing so beautiful as this in all our 
wanderings,” Lettice said at last in softened tones. 

She was looking at the clustering towers of the city, at 
Brunelleschi’s magnificent dome, and the slender grace of 
Giotto’s Campanile, and thence, from those storied trophies 
of transcendant art, her gaze wandered to the rich valley 
of the Arno, with its slopes of green and grey, and its dis- 
tant line of purple peaks against an opalescent sky. 

“It is more beautiful in spring. I miss the glow and 
scent of the flowers — the scarlet tulips, the sweet violets,” 
said Mrs. Hartley. 

“ I cannot imagine anything more beautiful,” Edith 
Dalton rejoined. “One feels oppressed with so much 
loveliness. It is beyond expression.” 

“ Silence is most eloquent, perhaps, in a place like this,” 
said Lettice. “ What can one say that is worth saying, or 
that has not been said before?” 

She was sitting on a fragment of fallen stone, her hands 
loosely clasped round her knees, her eyes fixed wistfully 
and dreamily upon the faint amethystine tints of the distant 
hills. Brooke Dalton looked down at her with an anxious 
eye. He did not altogether like this pensive mood of hers ; 
there was something melancholy in the drooping curves of 
her lips, in the pathos of her wide gaze, which he did not 
understand. He tried to speak lightly, in hopes of recall- 
ing her to the festive mood in which they had all begun 
the day. 

“You remind me of two friends of mine who are just 
home from Egypt. They say that when they first saw the 
Sphinx they sat down and looked at it for two hours without 
uttering a word.” 

“ You would not have done that, Brooke,” said Mrs. 
Hartley, a little maliciously. 

“ But why not ? I think it was the right spirit,” said 
Lettice, and again lapsed into silence. 

‘‘ Look at the Duomo, how well it stands out in the 
evening light ! ” exclaimed Edith. “ Do you remember 
what Michael Angelo said when he turned and looked at 


J\rAM£ AND FAME, 


249 

it before riding away to Rome to build St. Peter’s ? ^ Come 
te non voglio : meglio di te non posso.’ ” 

“ I am always struck by his generosity of feeling towards 
other artists,” remarked Mrs. Hartley. “ Except towards 
Raffaelle, perhaps. But think of what he said of Santa 
Maria Novella, that it was beautiful as a bride, and that 
the Baptistery gates were worthy of Paradise. It is only 
the great who can afford to praise so magnificently.” 

Again there was a silence. Then Mrs. Hartley and 
Edith professed to be attracted by a group of peasant 
children who were offering flowers and fruit for sale ; and 
they strolled to some little distance, talking to them and 
to a black-eyed cafitadijia, whose costume struck them as 
unusually gay. They even walked a little in the shade of 
the cypresses, with which the palazzo seemed to be guard- 
ed, as with black and ancient sentinels ; but all this was 
more for the sake of leaving Brooke alone with Lettice 
than because they had any very great interest in the Italian 
woman and her children, or the terraced gardens of the 
Villa Mozzi. For the time of separation was at hand. 
The Daltons were returning very shortly to England, and 
Brooke had not yet carried out his intention of asking 
Lettice Campion to be his wife. He had asked Mrs. 
Hartley that day to give him a chance, if possible, of half 
an hour’s conversation with Lettice alone ; but their excur- 
sion had not hitherto afforded him the coveted opportunity. 
Now, however, it had come ; but while Lettice sat looking 
towards the towers of Florence \yith that pensive and 
abstracted air, Brooke Dalton shrank from breaking in 
upon her reverie. 

In truth, Lettice was in no talkative mood. She had 
been troubled in her mind all day, and for some days pre- 
viously, and it was easier for her to keep silence than for 
any of the rest. If she had noticed the absence of Mrs. 
Hartley and Edith, she would probably have risen from 
her seat and insisted on joining them ; but strong in the 
faith that they were but a few steps away from her, she had 
thrown the reins of restraint upon the necks of her wild 
horses of imagination, and had been borne away by them 
to fields where Brooke’s fancy was hardly likely to carry 
him — fields of purely imaginative joy and ideal beauty, in 
which he had no mental share. It was rest and refresh- 
ment to her to do this, after the growing perplexity of the 


250 


NAMB AND FAME. 


last few days. Absorbed in her enjoyment of the lucent 
air, the golden and violet and emerald tints of the land- 
scape ; conscious also of the passionate joy which often 
thrills the nerves of Italy’s lovers when they find them- 
selves, after long years of waiting, upon that classic ground, 
she had for the time put away the thoughts that caused her 
perplexity, and abandoned herself to the sweet influences 
of the time and place. 

The Daltons had been in Italy since May, and she had 
seen a great deal of Edith. Brooke Dalton had sometimes 
gone off on an expedition by himself, but more frequently 
he danced attendance on the women ; and Lettice had found 
out that when he was absent she had a great deal more of 
him than when he was present. So much had Edith and 
Mrs. Hartley to say about him, so warmly did they praise 
his manners, his appearance, his manly and domestic vir- 
tues, and his enviable position in the world, that in course 
of time she knew all his good points by heart. She had 
actually found herself the day before, more as a humorous 
exercise of memory than for any other reason, jotting them 
down in her diary. 

“ B. D . — testibus E. D. et M. H. 

“ He is handsome, has a manly figure, a noble head, blue 
eyes, chestnut hair (it is turning grey — L. C.), a dignified 
presence, a look that shows he respects others as much as 
himself. 

“ He is truthful, simple in tastes, easily contented, 
lavishly generous (that I know — L. C.), knows his own 
mind (that I doubt — L. C.), is fond of reading (?), a 
scholar (? ?), with a keen appreciation of literature (? ? ?). 

“ He has one of the most delightful mansions in England 
(as I know — L. C.), with gardens, conservatories, a park, 
eight thousand a year. 

“ He is altogether an enviable man, and the woman who 
marries him will be an enviable woman (a matter of opinion 
— L. C.), and he is on the look-out for a wife (how would 
he like to have that said of him ? — L. C.).” 

Lettice had sportively written this in her diary, and had 
scribbled it out again ; but it represented fairly enough 
the kind of ideas which Brooke Dalton’s sister and cousin 
had busily instilled into her mind. The natural consequence 
was that she had grown somewhat weary of listening to 
the praises of their hero, and felt disposed to consider him 


jVAME AiXD fame. 


251 


as either much too superior to be thoroughly nice, or 
much too nice to be all that his womenfolk described him. 

Of some of his estimable qualities, however, she had had 
personal experience ; and, notably of his lavish generosity. 
A few days ago he had taken them all to the shop of a 
dealer of old-fashioned works of art and rare curiosities, 
declaring that he had brought them there for the express 
purpose of giving them a memento of Florence before they 
left the city. 

Then he bade them choose, and, leaving Edith and Mrs. 
Hartley to make their own selection, which they did 
modestly enough, letting him off at about a sovereign 
apiece, he insisted on prompting and j^ractically dictating 
the choice of Lettice, who, by constraint and cajolery to- 
gether, was made to carry away a set of intaglios that must 
have cost him fifty pounds at least. 

She had no idea of their value, but she was uneasy at 
having taken the gift. What would he conclude from her 
acceptance of such a valuable present? It was true that 
she was covered to some extent by the fact that Edith and 
Mrs. Hartley were with her at the time, but she could not 
feel satisfied about the propriety of her conduct, and she 
had a subtle argument with herself as to the necessity of 
returning the gems sooner or later, unless she was prepared 
to be compromised in the opinion of her three friends. 

• She had for the present, however, banished these un- 
pleasant doubts from her mind, and the guilty author of 
her previous discomfort stood idly by her side, smoking 
his cigar, and watching the people as they passed along 
the road. The other ladies were out of sight, and thus 
Brooke and Lettice were left alone. 

After a time she noticed the absence of her friends, and 
turned round quickly to look for them. Brooke saw the 
action, and felt that if he did not speak now he might never 
get such a good opportunity. So, with nothing but in- 
stinct for his guide, he plunged into the business without 
further hesitation. 

“ I hope you will allow. Miss Campion, that I know 
how to be silent when the occasion requires it ! I did not 
break in upon your reverie, and should not have done so, 
however long it might have lasted.” 

“ I am sorry you have had to stand sentinel,” said Let- 
tice ; “ but you told me once that a woman never need 


252 


AAM£ AND FAME, 


pity a man for being kept waiting so long as he had a cigar 
to smoke.” 

“ That is quite true ; and I have not been an object for 
pity at all. Unless you will pity me for having to bring 
my holiday to an end. You know that Edith and I are 
leaving Florence on Monday ? ” 

‘‘ Yes, Edith told me ; but she did not speak as though 
it would end your holiday. She said that you might go on 
to Rome — that you had not made up your mind what to 
do.” 

“ That is so — it depends upon circumstances, and the 
decision does not altogether rest with us. Indeed, Miss 
Campion, my future movements are quite uncertain until 
I have obtained your answer to a question which I want 
to put to you. May I put it now? ” 

“ If there is anything I can tell you — ” said Lettice, 
not without difficulty. Her breath came quick, and her 
bosom heaved beneath her light dress with nervous rapidity. 
What could he have to say to her ? She had refused all 
these weeks to face the idea which had been forcing itself 
upon her ; and he had been so quiet, so unemotional, 
that until now she had never felt uneasy in his presence. 

“ You can tell me a great deal,” said Brooke, looking 
down at her with increased earnestness and tenderness in 
his eyes and voice. Her face was half averted from him, 
but he perceived her emotion, and grew more hopeful at 
the sign. “ You can tell me all I want to know ; but, un- 
less you have a good niessage for me, I shall wish I had 
not asked you my question, and broken through the 
friendly terms of intercourse from which I have derived so 
much pleasure, and which have lasted so long between us.” 

Why did he pause ? What could she say that he would 
care to hear? 

“ Listen to me ! ” he said, sinking down on the seat be- 
side her, and pleading in a low tone. I am not a very 
young man. I am ten or twelve years older than yourself. 
But if I spoke with twice as much passion in my voice, 
and if I had paid you ten times as much attention and 
court as I have done, it would not prove me more sincere 
in my love, or more eager to call you my wife. You can- 
not think how I have been looking forward to this mo- 
ment — hoping and fearing from day to day, afraid to put 
my fate to the test, and yet impatient to know if I had any 


MME AND FAME. 


253 


chance of happiness. I loved you in London — I believe 
I loved you as soon as I knew you ; and it was simply 
and solely in order to try and win your love that I followed 
you to Italy. Is there no hope for me? ” 

She did not answer. She could not speak a word, foi a 
storm of conflicting feelings was raging in her breast. 
Feelings only — she had not begun to think. 

“ If you will try to love me,” he went on, ‘‘ it will be as 
much as I have dared to hope. If you will only begin by 
liking me, I think I can succeed in gaining what will per- 
fectly satisfy me. All my life shall be devoted to giving 
you the happiness which you deserve. Lettice, have you 
not a word to say to me ? ” 

“ I cannot — ” she whispered at length, so faintly that he 
could scarcely hear. 

“ Cannot even like me ! ” 

“ Oh, do not ask me that ! I cannot answer you. If 
liking were all — but you would not be content with that.” 

Say that you like me. Lettice, have a little pity on 
the heart that loves you ! ” 

“ What answer can I give ? An hour ago I liked you. 
Do you not see that what you have said makes the old 
liking impossible ? ” 

“ Yes — I know it. And I have thrown away all because 
I wanted more ! I spoke too suddenly. But do not, at 
any rate, forbid me still to nurse my hope. I will try 
and be patient. I will come to you again for my answer 
— when ? In a month — in six months ? Tell me only 
one thing — there is no one who has forestalled me? You 
are not pledged to another ? ” 

Lettice stood up — the effort was necessary in order to 
control her beating heart and trembling nerves. She did 
not reply. She only looked out to the sunlit landscape 
with wide, unseeing eyes, in which lurked a secret, un- 
spoken dread. 

“ Tell me before we part,” he said, in a voice which was 
hoarse with suppressed passion. “ Say there is no one to 
whom you have given your love ! ” 

“ There is no one ! ” — But the answer ended in a 
gasp that was almost a sob. 

“ Thank God ! ” said Brooke Dalton, as a look of infi- 
nite relief came into his face. “ Then a month to-day I 
will return to you, wherever you may be, and ask for my 
answer again.” 


254 


NAME AND FAME, 


Mrs. Hartley and Edith came back from the garden 
terraces. With kindly mischief in their hearts, they had 
left these two together, watching them with half an eye 
until they saw that the matter had come to a climax. When 
Lettice stood up, they divined that the moment had come 
for their reappearance. 

Lettice advanced to meet them, and when they were 
near enough Edith passed her hand through her friend’s 
still trembling arm. 

Those dear little Italian children ! ” said Mrs. Hart- 
ley. “ They are so beautiful — so full of life and spirits, I 
could have looked at them for another hour. Now, good 
people, what is going to be done ? We must be getting 
home. Brooke, can you see the carriage ? You might 
find it, and tell the driver to come back for us.” 

Brooke started off with alacrity, and the women were 
left alone. Then Edith began to chatter about nothing, 
in the most resolute fashion, in order that Lettice might 
have time to pull herself together. 

She was glad of their consideration, for indeed she 
needed all her fortitude. What meant this suffocation of 
the heart, which almost prevented her from breathing ? It 
ached in her bosom as though someone had grasped it 
with a hand of ice ; she shuddered as though a ghost had 
been sitting by her and pleading with her, instead of a 
lover. Her own name echoed in her ears, and she re- 
membered that Brooke Dalton had called her “ Lettice.” 
But it was not his voice which was calling to her now. 

Dalton presently reappeared with the news that the 
carriage was waiting for them in the road below. 

So in an hour from that time they were at home again, 
and Lettice was able to get to her own room, and to think 
of what had happened. 

If amongst those who read the story of her life Lettice 
Campion has made for herself a few discriminating friends, 
they will not need to be reminded that she was not by any 
means a perfect character. She was, in her way, quite as 
ambitious as her brother Sydney, although not quite so 
eager in pursuit of her own ends, her own pleasure and satis- 
faction. She was also more scrupulous than Sydney to the 
means which she would adopt for the attainment of her 
objects, and she desired that others should share with her 
the good things which fell to her lot; but she had never 


J\rAME AND FAME, 


255 


been taught, or had never adopted the rule, that mere self- 
denial, for self-denial’s sake, was the soundest basis of 
morality and conduct. She was thoroughly and keenly 
human, and she did but follow her natural bent, with- 
out distortion and without selfishness, in seeking to give 
happiness to herself as well as to others. 

Brooke Dalton’s offer of marriage placed a great temp- 
tation before her. All the happiness that money, and po- 
sition, and affection, and a luxurious home could afford was 
hers if she would have it ; and these were things which 
she valued very highly. Edith Dalton had done her best 
to make her friend realize what it would mean to be the 
mistress of Brooke’s house ; and poor Lettice, with all her 
magnanimity, was dazzled in spite of herself, and did not 
quite see why she should say No, when Brooke made her 
his offer. And yet her heart cried out against accepting 
it. 

She had needed time to think, and now the process was 
already beginning. He had given her a month to decide 
whether she could love him — or even like him well enough 
to become his wife. Nothing could be more generous, 
and indeed she knew that he was the soul of generosity 
and consideration. A month to make up her mind whe- 
ther she would accept from him all that makes life pleasant, 
and joyful, and easy, and comfortable; or whether she 
would turn her back upon the temptation, and shun de- 
lights, and live laborious days. 

Could she hesitate ? What woman with nothing to de- 
pend upon except her own exertions, and urged to assent 
(as she would be) by her only intimate friends, would have 
hesitated in her place ? Yet she did hesitate, and it was 
necessary to weigh the reasons against accepting, as she 
had dwelt upon the reasons in favor of it. 

If it was easy to imagine that life at Angleford Manor 
might be very peaceful and luxurious, there could be no 
doubt that she would have to purchase her pleasure at the 
cost of a great deal of her independence. She might be 
able to write, in casual and ornamental fashion ; but she 
felt that there would be little real sympathy with her lite- 
rary occupations, and the zest of effort and ambition which 
she now felt would be gone. Moreover, independence of 
action counted for very little in comparison with inde- 
dence of thought — and how could she nurse her somewhat 


AND fame. 


256 

heretical ideas in the drawing-room of a Tory High 
Church squire, a member of the Oligarchy, whose friends 
would nearly all be like-minded with himself? She had no 
right to introduce so great a discord into his life. If she 
married him, she would at any rate try (consciously or 
uni'onsciously) to adopt his views, as the proper basis of the 
partnership ; and therefore to marry him unquestionably 
meant the sacrifice of her independent judgment. 

So much for the intellectual and material sides of the 
question. But, Lettice asked herself, was that all ? 

No, there was something else. She had been steadily 
and obstinately, yet almost unconsciously, trying to push 
it away from her all the time — ever since Brooke Dalton 
began to betray his affection, and even before that when 
Mrs. Hartley, unknown to her, kept her in ignorance of 
things which she ought to have known. She had refused 
to face it, pressed it out of her heart, made believe to her- 
self that the chapter of her life which had been written in 
London was closed and forgotten — and how nearly she 
had succeeded ! But she had not quite succeeded. It was 
there still — the memory, the hope, the pity, the sacrifice. 

She must not cheat herself any longer, if she would be 
an honest and honorable woman. She would face the truth 
and not palter with it, now that the crisis had really come. 
What was Alan Walcott to her? Could she forget him, and 
dismiss him from her thoughts, and go to the altar with 
another man? She went over the scenes which they had 
enacted together, she recalled his words and his letters, she 
thought of his sorrows and trials, and remembered how he 
had appealed to her for sympathy. There was good reason, 
she thought, why he had not written to her, for he was 
barred by something more than worldly conventionality. 
When she, strong-minded as she thought herself, had 
shrunk from the display of his love because he still had 
duties to Ins lawful wife, she had imposed upon him her 
demand for conventional and punctilious respect, and had 
rather despised herself, she now remembered, for doing it. 
He had obeyed her, he had observed her slightest wishes 
— it was for her, not for him, to break through the silence. 
How had she been able to remain so long in ignorance of 
his condition, to live contentedly so many miles away from 
him ? 

As she thought of all these things in the light of her new 
experience, her heart was touched again by the old sym- 


J\^AM£ AA^D FAME, 


257 


pathy, and throbbed once more with the music which it 
had not known since her illness began. It was a harp 
which had been laid aside and forgotten, till the owner, 
coming by chance into the disused room, strung it anew, 
and bade it discourse the symphonies of the olden time. 

Not until Lettice had reached this point in her retro- 
spect did she perceive how near she had gone to the divid- 
ing line which separates honor from faithlessness and truth 
from falsehood. She had said, “ There is no one to whom 
my love is pledged.” Was that true ? Which is stronger 
or more sacred — the pledge of words or the pledge of feel- 
ing? She had tried to drown the feeling, but it would not 
die. It was there, it had never been absent ; and she had 
profaned it by listening to the temptations of Brooke Dal- 
ton, and by telling him that her heart was free. 

“It was a lie ! ” 

She sank on the sofa as she made the confession to her- 
self. Alan’s letters were in her hand ; she clasped them to 
her breast, and murmuied, 

“ It was a lie — for I love you ! ” 

If the poor wretch in his prison cell, who, worn out at 
last by daily self-consuming doubts, lay tossing with fever 
on a restless bed, could have heard her words and seen her 
action, he might have been called back to life from the 
borderland of the grave. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

AWAKENED. 

“ What is it, darling ?” Mrs. Hartley said to her friend when 
they met the next morning at the late breakfast which, out 
of deference to foreign customs, they had adopted. She 
looked observantly at the restless movements of the girl, 
and the changing color in her cheeks. “ You have not 
eaten anything, and you do nothing but shiver and sigh.” 

Mrs. Hartley was quite convinced in her own mind that 
Lettice had received an offer of marriage from her cousin 
Brooke Dalton. Possibly she had already accepted it. She 
should hear all about it that morning. The symptoms over- 
night had not been too favorable, but she putdown the dis- 


258 


NAME AND FAME. 


turbance which Lattice had shown to an excess of nervous 
excitement. Women do not all receive a sentence of hap- 
piness for life in precisely the same manner, she reflected : 
some cry and some laugh, some dance and sing, others col- 
lapse and are miserable. Lattice was one of the latter kind, 
and it was for Mrs. Hartley to give her a mother’s sym- 
pathy and comfort. So she awaited the word which should 
enable her to cut the dykes of her affection. 

Lettice turned white and cold, and her grey eyes were 
fixed with a stony look on the basket of flowers which 
decorated the breakfast table. 

I am not well,” she said, “ but it is worse with the 
mind than the body. I have done a wicked thing, and to 
atone for it I am going to do a cruel thing ; so how could 
you expect me to have an appetite?” 

“ My dear pet ! ” said Mrs. Hartley, putting out her 
hand to touch the fingers of her friend, which she found as 
cold as ice, “ you need not tell me that you have done 
anything wicked, for I don’t believe it. And I am sure 
you would not do anything cruel, knowing beforehand that 
it was cruel.” 

Is it not wicked to tell a lie ? — for I have done that.” 

“ No, no ! ” 

“And will it not be cruel to you and to Edith that I 
should cause pain to your cousin, and make him think me 
insincere and mercenary ? ” 

“ He could not possibly think so,” said Mrs. Hartley with 
decision. 

“ He must.” 

“ What are you going to do, Lettice ? ” 

“ I am going to tell him that I was not honest when I 
allowed him to say that he would come for my answer in 
a month, and to think it possible that the answer might 
be favorable — when God knows that it cannot.” 

Brooke has asked you to be his wife ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ And you told him to come for his answer in a 
month ? ” 

“ I agreed to it.” 

“ Well, darling, I think that was very natural — if you 
could not say ‘yes’ at once to my cousin.” 

There was a touch of resentment in the words “ my 
cousin,” which Lettice felt. Mrs. Hartley could not under- 


NAME AND FAME. 


259 

Stand that Brooke Dalton should have to offer himself twice 
over — even to her Lettice. 

^‘Wait this month,” she went on, “and we shall see 
what you think at the end of it. You are evidently upset 
now— taken by surprise, little innocent as you are. The 
fact is, you have never really recovered from your illness, 
and I believe you set to work again too soon. A hard- 
working life would not have suited you ; but, thank Hea- 
ven, there is an end of that. You will never have to make 
yourself a slave again ! ” 

“ Dear, you do not understand. I did a wicked thing 
yesterday, and now I must tell Mr. Dalton, and ask him 
to forgive me.” 

“ Nonsense, child ! ” 

Ah ! ” said Lettice, sadly, “ it is the first time you have 
ever spoken sharply to me, and that is part of my punish- 
ment ! ” 

Mrs. Hartley sank back in her chair, and looked as 
though she was about to take refuge in a quiet fit of weep- 
ing. 

“ I can’t comprehend it,” she said ; “ I thought we 
were going to be so happy ; and I am sure you and Brooke 
would suit each other exactly.” 

“ Oh no, indeed ; there are thousands of women who 
will make him a better wife than I could ever have done.” 

“ Now, do listen to me, and give yourself at least a week 
to think it over, before you say all this to Brooke ! That 
cannot make things worse, either for him or for yourself. 
Why should you be so rash about it ? ” 

“ I wish I could see any other way out of it — but I can- 
not ; and I have been thinking and thinking all the night 
long. It is a case of conscience with me now.” 

“You cannot expect me to see it, dear,” said Mrs. 
Hartley, rising from her chair. “ It is simply incompre- 
hensible, that you should first agree to wait a month, and 
then, after a few hours, insist on giving such a pointed re- 
fusal. Think, think, my darling ! ” she went on, laying a 
caressing hand on Lettice’s shoulder. “Suppose that 
Brooke should feel himself insulted by such treatment. 
Could you be surprised if he did ? ” 

Lettice buried her face in her hands, mutely despairing. 
Her punishment was very hard to bear, and the tears 
which trickled through her fingers showed how much she 


26 o 


J\rAM£ AND FAME, 


felt it. With an effort she controlled herself, and looked 
up again. 

“ I will tell him all,” she said. He shall be the judge. 
If he still wishes to renew his question in a month, I will 
hold myself to that arrangement. I shall claim nothing 
and refuse nothing ; but if he voluntarily withdraws his 
offer, then, dear, you will see that there could be no alterna- 
tive.” 

Mrs. Hartley bent to kiss her. 

“ I suppose that is all that can be done, Lettice. I am 
very sorry that my darling is in trouble ; but if I could help 
you, you would tell me more.” 

Then she left the room, and Lettice went to her desk and 
wrote her letter. 

“Dear Mr. Dalton, — When you asked me yesterday if there was 
any one to whom I had given my love, I said there was no one. I 
ought to have thought at the time that this was a question which I 
could not fairly answer. I am obliged now to confess that my answer 
was not sincere. You cannot think worse of me than I think of my- 
self ; but I should be still more to blame if I allowed the mistake to 
continue after I have realized how impossible it is for me to give you 
the answer that you desire. I can only hope that you will forgive me 
for apparently deceiving you, and believe that I could not have done it 
if I had not deceived myself. Sincerely yours, 

« Lettice Campion.” 

It was written ; and without waiting to criticize her own 
phrases, she sent it to the Palazzo Serafini by a special 
messenger. 

Brooke Dalton knew that he did not excel in letter writ- 
ing. He could indite a good, clear, sensible business 
epistle easily enough ; but to express love or sorrow or any 
of the more subtle emotions on paper would have been im- 
possible to him. Therefore he did not attempt the task. 
He at once walked over to Mrs. Hartley’s villa and asked 
to see Miss Campion. 

He was almost sorry that he had done so when Lettice 
came down to him in the little shaded sa/on where Mrs. 
Hartley generally received visitors, and he saw her face. 
It was white, and her eyes were red with weeping. Evi- 
dently that letter had cost her dear, and Brooke Dalton 
gathered a little courage from the sight. 

She came up to him and tried to speak, but the words 
would not come. Brooke was not a man of very quick 


J\rAM£ AND FAME, 


261 


intuitions, as a rule ; but in this case love gave him sharp- 
ness of sight. He took her hand in both his own and held 
it tenderly while he spoke. 

“ There is no need for you to say anything,” he said ; 
“ no need for you to distress yourself in this way. I have 
only come to say one thing to you, because I felt that I 
could say it better than I could write it. Of course, I was 
grieved by your note this morning — terribly grieved and — 
and — disappointed ; but I don’t think that it leaves me 
quite without hope, after all.” 

Oh,” Lettice was beginning in protest ; but he hushed 
her with a pressure of his hand. 

“ Listen to me one moment. My last question yester- 
day was unwarrantable. I never ought to have asked it ; 
and I beg you to consider it and your answer unspoken. 
Of course, I should be filled with despair if I believed — 
but I don’t believe — I don’t conclude anything from the 
little you have said. I shall still come to you at the end 
of the month and ask for my answer then.” 

“ It will be of no use,” she said, sadly, with averted face 
and downcast eyes. 

“ Don’t say so. Don’t deprive me of every hope. Let 
me beg of you to say nothing more just now. In a month’s 
time I will come to you, wherever you are, and ask for 
your final decision.” 

He saw that Lettice was about to speak, and so he 
went on hastily, “ I don’t know if I am doing right or 
wrong in handing you this letter from your brother. He 
gave it me before I left England, and bade me deliver it 
or hold it back as I saw fit."^’ 

“ He knew ? ” said Lettice, trembling a little as the 
thought of her brother’s general attitude towards her 
wishes for independence and her friendship for Alan Wal- 
cott. You had told him ? ” 

“ Yes, he knew when he wrote it that I meant to ask 
you to be my wife. I do not know what is in it ; but I 
should imagine from the circumstances that it might con- 
vey his good wishes for our joint happiness, if such a 
thing could ever be ! I did not make up my mind to give 
it to you until I had spoken for myself.” 

Lettice took the letter and looked at it helplessly, the 
color flushing high in her cheeks. Dalton saw her embar- 
rassment, and divined that she would not like to open the 
letter when he was there. 


262 


NAME AND FAME. 


“ I am going now,” he said. “ Edith and I leave Flo- 
rence this afternoon. We are going to Rome — I shall not 
gd back to England until I have your answer. For the 
present, good-bye.” 

Lettice gave him her hand again. He pressed it warmly, 
and left her without another word. She was fain to ac- 
knowledge that he could not have behaved with more deli- 
cacy or more generosity. But what should she say to him 
when the month was at an end? 

She sat for some time with Sydney’s letter in her lap, 
wishing it were possible for her to give Brooke Dalton the 
answer that he desired. But she knew that she could not 
do it. It was reserved for some other woman to make 
Brooke Dalton happy. She, probably, could not have 
done it if she had tried ; and she consoled herself by think- 
ing that he would live to see this himself. 

Sydney’s handwriting on the sealed envelope (she 
noticed that it was Dalton’s seal) caught her eye. What 
could he have to say to her in his friend’s behalf? What 
was there that might be said or left unsaid at Mr. Dalton’s 
pleasure ? She had not much in common with Sydney 
now-a-days ; but she knew that he was just married, and 
that he loved his wife, and she thought that he might per- 
haps have only kindly words in store for her — words writ- 
ten perhaps when his heart was soft with a new sort of 
tenderness. Lettice was hungering for a word of love and 
sympathy. She opened the letter and read : 

“ Angleford, Easter Tuesday. 

“ My Dear Lettice, 

“ I am writing this at the close of a short country holiday at Brooke 
Dalton's place. You know that Brooke has always been a good friend 
to me, and I owe him a debt of gratitude which I cannot easily repay, 

“ It would be impossible to express the pleasure with which I heard 
from him that he had become attached to my only sister, and that he 
was about to make her an ofter of marriage. You would properly re- 
sent anything I might say to you in the way of recommendation (and I 
am sure that he would resent it also), on the ground of his wealth, his 
excellent worldly position, and his ability to surround his wife with all 
the luxuries which a woman can desire. I will not suggest any con- 
siderations of that kind, but it is only right that I should speak of my 
friend as I know him. The woman who secures Brooke Dalton fora 
husband will have the love and care of one of the best men in the 
world, as well as the consideration of society. 

“ I look forward, therefore, to a very happy time when you will be 
settled down in a home of your own, where I can visit you from time 


AATD FAME. 


263 

to time, and where you will be free from the harass and anxieties of 
your present existence. My own anxieties of late have been heavy 
enough, for the wear and tear of Parliamentary life, in addition to the 
ordinary labors of my profession, are by no* means inconsiderable! 
And I have recently had some worrying cases. In one of these I was 
called upon to prosecute a man with whom you were at one time un- 
fortunately brought into contact — Walcott by name. He was accused 
of wounding Ins wife with intent t«) do her grievous bodily harm, and 
it was proved that he almost murdered her by a savage blow with a 
dagger. There could not be a doubt of his guilt, and he was sentenced 
(very mercifully) to six months’ hard labor. That illustrates the 
strange vicissitudes of life, for, of course, he is absolutely ruined in the 
eyes of all right-minded persons, 

“ Brooke Dalton will probably give you this when you meet, and I 
shall no doubt hear from you before long. Meanwhile I need not do 
any more than wish you every possible happiness. 

“ Believe me, your affectionate brother, 

Sydney.” 


Mrs. Hartley was busy in the next room, arranging and 
numbering a large collection of pictures which she had 
bought since she came to Florence, and thinking how very 
useful they would be at her Sunday afternoon and evening 
receptions, when she went back to London in October. 
That was the uppermost thought in her mind when she 
began her work, but Brooke’s visit had excited her 
curiosity, and she was longing to know whether it would 
succeed in removing her friend’s incomprehensible scruples. 

Suddenly she was startled by a cry from the other room. 
It was like a cry of pain, sharp at the beginning, but 
stifled immediately. Mrs. Hartley ran to the door and 
looked in. Lettice, with an open letter in her hand, was 
lying back in her chair, half unconscious, and as white in 
the face as the letter itself. A glance showed Mrs. Hartley 
that this letter was not from Brooke ; but her only 
concern at the moment was for her friend. 

Poor Lettice had been stunned by Sydney’s blundering 
missive ; and yet it was not altogether Sydney’s fault that ' 
the statement of facts came upon her with crushing force. 
It was Mrs. Hartley herself who was mainly responsible 
for the concealment of what had happened to Alan ; and 
she, no doubt, had done her part with the best intentions. 
But tlie result was disastrous so far as her intrigue and 
wishes were concerned. 

With a little care and soothing, Lettice presently reco- 
vered from the shock, at any rate sufficiently to stand up 
and speak. 


264 


^TAME AND FAME. 


“ Read this,” she said faintly to Mrs. Hartley, steadying 
herself against the table. “ Is it true ? Is Alan Walcott in 
.prison ? Did you know it ? ” 

“ Yes, my darling, I knew it ! ” 

“ And never told me ? When was it ? ” 

Lettice looked at her friend reproachfully, yet without a 
trace of anger. 

“ My dearest Lettice, would it have been wise for me to 
tell you at the time — the trial was in April — when you 
were still dangerously weak and excitable ? It was not as 
if I had known that it would be — what shall I say ? — a 
matter of such great concern to you. Remember that we 
had never mentioned his name since we left England, and 
I could not assume that the old friendly interest in him 
survived.” 

“ I do not blame you, dear,” said Lettice faintly. “ I do 
not blame Sydney — unless it is for prosecuting him. I 
cannot think or reason about it — I can only feel ; and I 
suppose that what I feel amounts to my own condemna- 
tion.” 

“ Don’t talk of condemnation ! Your kind heart makes 
you loyal to everyone whom you have called a friend — and 
what can be more natural } I was terribly grieved for the 
unfortunate man when I heard of the trouble he had 
brought on himself. But we cannot bear each other’s 
sorrows in this world. Each one must reap as he has 
sown.” 

“ And do you think that Alan has sown what he is reap- 
ing? Do you believe that he stabbed his wife ? ” 

“ My dear, I must believe it. Everyone believes it.” 

“Alan ! ” said Lettice, half raising her hand, and gazing 
out through the open window, over the banks of the yellow- 
flowing Arno, with a look of ineffable trust and tenderness 
in her face, “ Alan, did you try to kill the woman who has 
cursed and degraded you ? Did you strike her once in 
return for her thousand malicious blows ? Did you so much 
as wish her ill to gratify your anger and revenge ? No ! — 
there is one, at least, who does not believe you guilty of 
this crime ! ” 

“ Lettice, darling ! ” 

“ I hear no voice but that of Alan, calling to me from his 
prison cell.” She sprang to her feet and stood as if listen- 
ing to a far-off call. 


ajvd fame. 


265 

“ Lettice, for Heaven’s sake, do not give way to delu- 
sions. Think of those who love you best, who will be in 
despair if ill should befall you.” 

“ Yes, 1 will think of those who love me best ! I must 
go to him. Dear Mrs. Hartley, I am not losing my senses, 
but the feeling is so strong upon me that I have no power 
to resist it. 1 must go to Alan.” 

“ My child, consider ! You cannot go to him. He is in 
prison.” 

“ I will go and live at the gates until he comes out.” 

“You must not talk like this. I cannot let you go — 
you, a woman ! What would the world think of you ? ” 

“ What does the world think of him ? It says he is 
guilty — when I know that he is not ! ” 

“ You cannot know, Lettice. All that was proved 
against him is that in some way or other, goaded by her 
reproaches, he stabbed her with his dagger. But that was 
proved, and you cannot get over it. I can quite believe 
that he is more unfortunate than maliciously guilty ; yet, 
surely, you must admit that he is ruined.” 

“ Never ! ” said Lettice, passionately. She could 
almost have stamped her foot with rage to hear another 
say what was already in her own mind. But old habits of 
self-restraint came to her aid. She raised her head proudly 
as she replied : “ A man is never ruined. Alan Walcott 
has a future.” 

“ He may have a future, dear, but it is one in which we 
cannot be concerned. Listen to me, Lettice — I do so 
strongly feel that this is the crisis and turning point of your 
life ! There are lines beyond which no woman who respects 
herself, or who would be respected by the world, can go. 
If you do not act with prudence and common sense to-day, 
you may have to repent it all the rest of your life. You 
are strong — use your strength to good purpose, and think, 
for Heaven’s sake think, of the courage and self-sacrifice 
which are expected from women of your breeding and 
position.” She ended with tears in her eyes, for although 
she spoke conventionally, and as conventional women 
speak, her heart was full of the truest anxiety and tender- 
ness for her friend. 

Lettice was looking out of the window again, as though 
for inspiration in her difficulty. When she answered, it was 
with inexpressible sadness and regret. 


266 


atamb and fame. 


“You have been so good and kind to me that it cuts my 
heart to disagree with you 'in any way. Have I reached 
such a turning point as you say ? Perhaps it is so — but I 
have been brought to it ; I have not wilfully walked up to 
it. You said that Alan’s future was one in_ which we 
could not be concerned. What I feel at this moment, 
more vividly than I ever felt anything in my life, is that I 
am concerned and involved in his future. I have fought 
againsYthis, and put it aside, as you, my dear friend, must 
know. I have tried to forget him — and my shame of the 
past few weeks has been that I tried to care for some one 
else. Well, I failed ; and see how the very trying has 
brought me to this clear and irresistible knowledge of my 
own heart ! If I were superstitious, I should say that it 
was my fate. I don’t know what it is — I don’t know if my 
view or your view of my duty is right — but I am quite sure 
of this, that I shall have to act on my own view. Courage 
and self-sacrifice — yes! They are primary virtues in a 
woman ; but courage for what ? Self-sacrifice for whom ? ” 
“ For society ! For the world in general ! ” 

“ But the world in general has the world to help it. If 
one man needs a woman’s sacrifice, he has only one woman 
to look to. I am very, very sorry that I cannot go my own 
way without giving you pain, and if only I could think that 

by any act which it is in my power to do ” 

“ I don’t know what you mean by going your own way, 
child ; but I hope you will come to a better mind before 
you take a decided step.” Mrs. Hartley was growing 
thoroughly alarmed. 

“ Indeed, I have come to the best, the only possible 
resolution ; and the question is, how soon I can be in 
London. We have been in Italy a long time, have we 
not? ” 

“ Eleven months.” 

“ Do you wish to stay much longer ? ” 

“ I see very plainly, Lettice, that, if I did want to stay, 
it would end in my being here alone. But I shall not let 
you travel by yourself. If your interest in Italy has gone, 
so has mine. We will start on Saturday.” 

. Mrs. Hartley was sorely disappointed, and even angry 
with Lettice ; but she thought that at any rate she ought 
not to pn t with her until they were back again in London. 
And th^.e was at least a hope that she would be more 
prudent a week hence than she was to-day. 


JVAME AND FAME. 


267 


As for Lettice, she found it very hard to wait. If she 
had been alone she would have left Florence within an 
hour of reading Sydney’s letter, for her heart was on fire 
with impatience. 

She did not speak to Brooke Dalton again, except in the 
presence of her friends ; but after he and Edith had gone 
she wrote him another letter to the address which he had 
given them. In this letter she begged him, as kindly as 
she could, to consider her last answer as final. “ Sydney’s 
note,” she said, “ has only strengthened my decision. 
Indeed, it has made me ten times more decided. My 
heart is not mine to give. You will not expect that I 
should say more than this. The best thing I can hope 
from you is that you will judge me charitably, and that if 
others reproach me you will not join in the chorus.” 

Poor Brooke Dalton kissed the letter quietly, and said 
nothing about it ; nor did he openly give utterance to the 
words which entered his mind in reference to Sydney’s in- 
tervention. Mrs. Hartley silently resolved to see Sydney 
Campion as soon as she got back to London, and beg him 
to reason with Lettice, and, if possible, bring her to a better 
mind. But she was disappointed to find that Sydney was 
not in town. His marriage had taken place in September 
and he had gone to Scotland with his wife. She knew that 
he was on fairly good terms with Lettice, and had pressed 
her to be present at the wedding, also that Miss Pynsent 
had sent a very charming and affectionate letter to her 
future sister-in-law. But whether Lettice had written to 
him and told him of her intentions and opinions, Mrs. 
Hartley did not know. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

AMBITION AT THE HELM. 

Sydney Campion and Anna Pynsent were married early in 
September, while Lettice was still in Italy. There had 
been a death in the Pynsent family since the death of 
Sydney’s mother, and Nan was not sorry to make this a 
pretext for arranging every thing in the simplest possible 
manner. She had no bridesmaids, and did without a wed- 


268 


jvaM£ and fame. 


ding-feast ; and, strange to say, Sydney was perfectly well 
content. 

For it might have been expected that Sydney — with 
whom the roots of worldliness and selfishness had struck 
very deep — would desire a wedding that would make a 
noise in the world, and would not be satisfied with a bride 
in a severely simple white dress and a complete absence 
of all display. But it seemed as if all that was good in his 
character had been brought to the surface by a marriage 
which his club-friends chuckled over as so absolutely un- 
exceptionable from a worldly point of view. For almost 
the first time in his life he was a little ashamed of his world- 
liness. His marriage with Nan Pynsent was making — or 
so he thought — everything easy for him ! His selfishness 
was pampered by the girl’s adoring love, by her generosity, 
even by her beauty and her wealth ; and it recoiled upon 
itself in an utterly unexpected way. Finding life no longer 
a battle, Sydney became suddenly ashamed of some of his 
past methods of warfare ; and, looking at his betrothed, 
could only breathe a silent and fervent aspiration that she 
might never know the story of certain portions of his 
life. 

He was thoroughly in love with his wife ; and — what was 
more important in a man of his temperament — he admired 
as well as loved her. Her personal charm was delightful 
to him, and the high-bred quietness of her manner, the 
refinement of her accent, the aroma of dignity and respect 
which surrounded the Pynsent household in general, were 
elements of his feeling for her as strong as his sense of her 
grace and beauty. With his high respect for position and 
good birth, it would have been almost impossible for him 
to yield his heart for long to a woman in a lower grade of 
society than his own ; even a woman who might be consi- 
dered his equal was not often attractive to him ; he pre- 
ferred one — other considerations apart — who was socially 
a little his superior, and could make a link for him with the 
great families of England. Had Nan been the pretty 
governess whom he thought her at first, not all her charm, 
her talent and her originality of character, would have pre- 
vailed to make him marry her. 

But in spite of these defects, when once his judgment 
had assented, he gave free rein to his heart. Nan satisfied 
his taste and his intellect, to begin with ; his senses were 


AND FAME. 


269 


equally well content with her beauty'; and then — then — 
another kind of emotion came into play. He was a little 
vexed and impatient with himself at first, to find the differ- 
ence that she made in his life. She interested him pro- 
foundly, and he had never been profoundly interested in 
any woman before. Her earnestness charmed while it 
half-repelled him. And her refinement, her delicacy of 
feeling, her high standard of morality, perpetually aston- 
ished him. He remembered that he had heard his sister 
Lettice talk as Nan sometimes talked. With Lettice he had 
pooh-poohed her exalted ideas and thought them woman- 
ish ; in Nan, he was inclined to call them beautiful. Of 
course, he said to himself, her ideas did not affect him ; 
men could not guide their lives by a woman’s standard ; 
nevertheless, her notions were pretty, although puritanical; 
and he had no desire to see them changed. He would not 
have Nan less conscientious for the world. 

An appeal to Sydney’s self-love had always been a direct 
appeal to his heart. It was sometimes said of him that he 
cared for others chiefly in proportion as they conferred 
benefits and advantages upon himself ; but he was certainly 
capable of warm affection when it had been called into 
existence. He began to display a very real and strong 
affection for Nan. She had found the way to his heart — 
though she little suspected it — through his very weak- 
nesses : she had conquered the man she loved by means of 
his selfishness. The worldly advantages she conferred 
took his nature by storm. It was not a high-minded way 
of contracting an engagement for life ; but, as a fragrant 
flower may easily grow upon a very unpleasant dunghill, 
so the sweet flower of a true, pure love began to flourish 
on the heap of refuse with which the good in Sydney’s 
nature had been overlaid. 

Sydney was treated with considerable generosity by 
Nan’s guardian and trustees. Her fortune was of course 
to remain largely at her own disposal ; but an ambitious 
man like Sydney Campion was certain to profit by it in 
some degree. Sir John Pynsent had always known that he 
was not likely to possess the management of it for long, 
and the next best thing was that it should be utilized fora 
member of the Conservative party, one of his own special 
connection, whose future career he should be able to watch 
over and promote. Campion must clearly understand that 


270 


NAME AND FAME. 


he owed his position and prospects to the Pynsents. He 
was apt to be somewhat off-hand and independent, but he 
would improve with a little judicious coaching. A man 
cannot be independent who owes his seat to the Oligarchy, 
his introduction in Parliament to individual favor, and his 
private fortune to the daughter of a house which had al- 
ways been devoted to the interests of a particular party. 
This was Campion’s position, and Sir John felt that his 
brother-in-law would soon fall into line. 

Sydney was made the proprietor of the London house in 
which they were to live — the house at Vanebury was let 
for the present ; but the whole of the domestic charges 
were to be borne by his wife. His professional income 
would be at his own disposal ; and by special arrangement 
the sum of twenty thousand pounds was set apart as a 
fund to be drawn upon from time to time, by their joint 
consent, for the advancement of his purely political inter- 
ests, in such a manner as might be deemed most expe- 
dient. 

This was a better arrangement than Sydney had allowed 
himself to anticipate, and he was naturally elated by his 
success. He was so grateful to Nan for the good things 
she had brought him that he studied her tastes and con- 
sulted her inclinations in a way quite new to him. No 
doubt there was selfishness even in the repression of self 
which this compliance with her habits imposed upon him; 
but the daily repression was a gain to him. 

And Nan recompensed his considerate behavior by 
giving him that incense of love and esteem and intellectual 
deference which is desired by every man ; and by convinc- 
ing him that his ambitions — as she knew them — had in her 
the most complete sympathy, and the most valuable aid. 
This she did for him, and satisfied all the wishes of his 
heart. 

They had a delightful honeymoon in the Tyrol, and 
returned to town late in October. The house in Thurloe 
Square, where they were to reside, had been newly decor- 
ated and furnished for them, and was pronounced by critics 
to be a marvel of luxury and beauty. Sydney, though he 
did not pretend to be well acquainted with aesthetic fashions, 
recognized that the rooms had an attractive appearance, 
and set off Nan’s beauty to the best advantage. He fell 
easily and naturally into the position which his good for- 


JVAME AND FAME, 


271 

tune had marked out for him, and thought, iu spite of 
certain bitter drops, in spite of a touch of gall in tne honey, 
and a suspected thorn on the rose, in spite of a cloud no 
bigger than a man’s hand in an otherwise clear sky, that 
Fate had on the whole been very kind to him. 

Nan’s first appearance as a bride was at her brother’s 
house. Lady Pynsent’s whole soul was wrapped up in the 
art and mystery of entertaining, and she hailed this oppor- 
tunity of welcoming the Campions into her “set” with 
unfeigned joy. Her gifts as a hostess had been her chief 
recommendation in Sir John’s eyes when he married her; 
he would never have ventured to espouse a woman who 
could not play her part in the drawing-room as well as he 
could play his part in the club. 

A few days after the Campions’ arrival in town, there- 
fore, the Pynsents gave a dinner at their own house, to 
which Lady Pynsent had invited a number of men, Sydney 
Campion amongst the number, whom Sir John desired to 
assemble together. The Benedicts came with their wives, 
and Nan made her first entry into the charmed circle of 
matrons, where Sydney hoped that she would one day lead 
and rule. 

Sir John had an object in gathering these half-dozen 
congenial spirits round his table. He always had, or in- 
vented, an object for his acts, whatever they might be ; a 
dinner party at home would have bored him grievously if 
he could not have invested it with a distinct political pur- 
pose. And, indeed, it was this power of throwing fine 
dust in his own eyes which first made his party regard him 
as an important social facto'r, worthy of being taken 
seriously at his own valuation. The spirit of the age was 
just as strong in him, though in a somewhat different sense, 
as it was in Lord Montagu Plumley, one of his guests on 
the present occasion, who had shot up like a meteor from 
the comparative obscurity of cadetship in a ducal family to 
the front rank of the Tory pretenders, mainly by ticketing 
his own valuation on his breast, and keeping himself per- 
petually front foremost to the world. The fault was not 
so much Lord Montagu’s as that of the age in which he 
lived. He had merit, and he felt his strength, precisely as 
Sir John felt his strength as a social pioneer, but in a gene- 
ration of talented mediocrities he had no chance of making 
his merit known by simply doing his duty. At any rate, 


J\rAME AATD FAME, 


272 

he had given up the attempt in despair, and on a memor- 
able evening, of which the history shall one day be written 
full and fair, he had expounded to a select group of his 
intimate friends his great theory on the saving of the 
Commonwealth, and his method of obtaining the sceptre 
of authority, which implied the dispensation of honors to 
all who believed in him. 

A very good fellow in his way was Montagu Plumley, 
and Sir John was anxious that Sydney Campion, now a 
connection as well as a friend, should be brought within 
the influence of one whom the baronet had always regarded 
as the Young Man of the future. Sydney had been wont 
to sneer a little, after his fashion, at the individuals who 
interpreted the new ideas, though he accepted the ideas 
themselves as irrefragable. The nation must be saved by 
its young men — yes, certainly. As a young man he saw 
that plainly enough, but it was not going to be saved by 
any young man who could be named in his presence. He 
had said something like this to Sir John Pynsent, not many 
days before his marriage, and Sir John, who had taken 
Sydney’s measure to a nicety, had resolved that his pro- 
mising brother-in-law should be converted at the earliest 
possible opportunity into a faithful follower and henchman 
of Lord Montagu Plumley. 

Another old friend of the reader was amongst the guests 
who sat over their wine round Sir John’s hospitable board. 
This was the Honorable Tom Willoughby, whom his host 
had initiated at the Oligarchy into the art of fishing for 
men in the troubled w'aters of Liberalism. Tom Willough- 
by was, and always would be, alight weight in the political 
arena, but he was very useful when put to work that he 
could do. He was the spoiled child of Sir John Pynsent, 
and was fast earning a character as the chartered libertine 
of the House of Commons, where his unfailing good humor 
made him friends on both sides. Sir John told him one 
day that he was cut out to be an envoy extraordinary from 
the Conservative to the Liberal ranks, whereupon the Hon- 
orable Tom had answered that he did not mind discharging 
the function for his party to-day if he could see his way to 
doing the same thing for his country hereafter. Whereat 
Sir John laughed, and told him that if he wanted a mission 
of that kind he must bow down to the rising sun ; and it 
was then that he asked his friend to come and dine with 
Lord Montagu. 


^rAME AND FAME, 


273 


Gradually, after the ladies had gone, the conversation 
shifted round to politics, and Sir John began to draw his 
guests out. People had been talking a good deal during 
the last few days about the resignation of Mr. Bright, 
which, coining in the same session with that of Mr. Forster, 
had . made something of a sensation. 

“ How long will you give them now. Lord ]\Jx)ntagu ? ” 
said the baronet. “ Two of their strongest men are gone 
— one over Ireland and the other over Egypt. If the 
country could vote at this moment, I verily believe that we 
should get a majority. It almost makes one wish for an- 
nual Parliaments.” 

“ I have more than once thought. Sir John, that the 
Tories would have had a much longer aggregate of power 
in the past fifty years if there had been a general election 
every year. When we come into office we make things 
perfectly pleasant all round for the first twelve month. 
When they come in, it rarely takes them a year to set their 
friends at loggerheads. As it is, they will stick in to the 
last moment — certainly until they have passed a Franchise 
Act.” 

“ I suppose so. We must not go to the country on the 
Franchise.” 

“ Rather not.” 

“ And it will be too late to rely on Egypt.” 

“ Heaven only knows what they are yet capable of in 
Egypt. But we shall have something stronger than that to 
go upon — as you know very well.” 

“ Ireland,” said Campion. 

“ Not exactly Ireland, though the seed may spring up 
on Irish soil. The main thing to do, the thing that every 
patriotic man ought to work for, is to break down the pre- 
sent One Old Man system of government in this country. 
The bane of Great Britain is that we are such hero-wor- 
shippers by nature that we can only believe in one man at 
a time. We get hold of a Palmerston or a Gladstone, and 
set him on a pedestal, and think that everybody else is a 
pygmy. It may be that our idol is a tolerably good one 
— that is, not mischievously active. In that case he can- 
not do much harm. But when, as in the case of Gladstone, 
you have a national idol who is actively mischievous, it is 
impossible to exaggerate the evil which may be done. 
Therefore the object which we should all pursue in the first 

18 


274 


jVAME and fame. 


instance is to throw off the old man of the sea, and not 
merely to get the better of him in parliament, but to cover 
him with so much discredit that he cannot wheedle another 
majority from the country. It does not signify whether 
we do this through Irish or Egyptian affairs, so long as we 
do it. Mr. Campion has shown us how seats are to be 
won. We want fifty or sixty men at least to do the same 
thing for us at the next election.” 

“ There is no doubt,” said Campion, that with the pre- 
sent electorate we might safely go to the poll at once. 
Liberalism, minus Bright, Forster, and Goschen, and plus 
Alexandria and Phoenix Park, is no longer what it was in 
1880. I had the most distinct evidence of that at Vane- 
bury.” 

“ There was a considerable turnover of votes, I sup- 
pose ? ” 

“ Unquestionably, and amongst all classes.” 

“ Yes, that is encouraging, so far. But in view of the 
new franchise, it does not go nearly far enough. The 
idol must be overthrown.” 

“ Who is to do it .? ” Sydney asked. 

“That is hardly for me to say. But it will be done.” 

“ The idol is doing it very fairly,” said Willoughby, “ on 
his own account, especially in London. Wherever I go his 
popularity is decidedly on the wane amongst his old sup- 
porters.” 

“ Let that go on for a year or two,” said Lord Montagu, 
“ and then, when the inevitable compact is made with Par- 
nell, the great party which has had its own way in England 
for so many years, at any rate up to 1874, will crumble to 
pieces.” 

The talk was commonplace as beseemed the occasion ; 
but Sir John’s object in bringing his men together was 
practically gained. Before the evening was over, Lord 
Montagu was favorably impressed by Campion’s ability and 
shrewdness, whilst Sydney was more disposed from that 
time to regard Plumley as one of the most likely aspirants 
for the leadership of his party. 

In the drawing-room. Nan had made herself as popular 
as her husband was making himself in the dining-room. 
She was greatly improved by her marriage, many of the 
matrons thought ; she was more dignified and far less 
abrupt than she used to be. She had always been con- 


A^AME AND FAME. 


275 


sidered pretty, and her manners were gaining the finish 
that they had once perhaps lacked ; in fact, she had found 
out that Sydney set a high value on social distinction and 
prestige ; and, resolving to please him in this as in every- 
thing else, she had set herself of late to soften down any 
girlish harshness or brusquerie, such as Lady Pynsent used 
sometimes to complain of in her, and to develop the gra- 
cious softness of manner which Sydney liked to see. 

“ She will be quite the grande dame^ by and by,” said 
one lady, watching her that night. “ She has some very 
stately airs already, and yet she is absolutely without 
affectation. Mr. Campion is a very lucky man.” 

Nan was asked to play ; but, although she acknowledged 
that she still kept up her practising, she had not brought 
her violin with her. She was half afraid, moreover, that 
Sydney did not like her to perform. She fancied that he 
had an objection to any sort of display of either learning 
or accomplishment on a woman’s part ; she had gathered 
this impression from the way in which he spoke of his sis- 
ter Lettice. And she did not want to expose herself to the 
same sort of criticism. 

One of the younger ladies at Lady Pynsent’s that night 
was a Mrs. Westray, wife of the eminently respectable 
member for Bloomsbury, who, as a city merchant of great 
wealth and influence, was one of the invited guests. Mrs. 
Westray was by way of being a literary lady, having 
printed a volume of her ‘‘Travels.” Unfortunately she 
had only traveled in France, over well-worn tracks, and 
her book appeared just after those of two other ladies, 
with whom the critics had dealt very kindly indeed ; so 
that the last comer had not been treated quite so well as 
she deserved. Nevertheless she keenly enjoyed her repu- 
tation as a woman of letters ; and having found on inquiry 
that Sydney Campion was the brother of the lady whose 
novel had gained such a brilliant success in the spring, 
she asked her husband to bring him to her. 

“Oh, why does Miss Campion live out of England?” 
Mrs. Westray asked him, after gushing a little about his 
sister’s “ exquisite romance”. “ Surely she does not mean 
to do so always ? ” 

“ No,” said Sydney. “ I hope not. She was rather 
seriously ill last Christmas, and we thought it best for her 
to live in Italy until she quite recovered. I trust that we 


276 


NAME AND FAME. 


shall have her back again before the end of the year.” He 
was as yet unacquainted with the history of his sister’s 
movements. 

“ I am so glad to hear it. I want very much to make 
her acquaintance.” 

We hope that my sister will come to stay with us for 
a time,” said Sydney, “ and in that case you will be sure 
to see her.” 

“That will be so very nice,” said the lady ; “ I am quite 
certain I shall like her immensely.” 

Sydney felt a little doubtful whether Lettice would like 
Mrs. Westray ; and he also doubted whether his wife and 
his sister would be found to have much in common. But 
he was more or less consciously building on the hope that 
Dalton’s suit would prosper, and that Lettice would settle 
down quietly as the mistress of Angleford Manor, and so 
be weaned from the somewhat equivocal situation of a 
successful author. It did not so much as enter his mind, 
by the way, that there was anything equivocal in Mrs. 
Westray’s authorship. Her book had failed, and her 
husband wsls very wealthy, so that she could not be sus- 
pected of having earned money by her pen. But Lettice 
had cheques for /ler romances ! 

The dinner was very successful, and the Pynsents were 
charmed with the result. “ It is a most suitable union,” 
said Sir John, alluding to Nan’s marriage to Sydney Cam- 
pion, and hoping to crush his wife a little, seeing that she 
had objected to it : “ it does great credit to my discernment 
in bringing them together. I always knew that Campion 
would get on. Lord Montagu was very much pleased 
with him.” 

“ Nan looked lovely,” said Lady Pynsent, ignoring her 
husband’s innuendo. “ She tells me that Sydney is very 
particular about her dress, and she seems perfectly happy.” 

Meanwhile, as Sydney and his wife were driving home. 
Nan nestled up to him and said coaxingly, 

“Now tell me, dear, just what you were thinking of to- 
night.” 

“ I was thinking that my wife was the most beautiful 
woman in the room.” 

“ Oh, I did not mean anything of that kind. When you 
were talking at dinn®r-time, and after we had gone up 
stairs, what was really the uppermost thought in your 
mind ? ” 


NAME AND FAME. 


277 


“ Well,” said Sydney laughing, “ you deserve all my can- 
dor, Nan. I was thinking, if you must know, that I could 
meet any one of those men in debate, or in council, and 
hold my own against him. There’s vanity for you ! Now 
it is your turn.” 

“ Mine ? ” she said. “ Why, it was just the same as 
your own. That you were as wise and great as any of 
them ” 

“Ah, I didn’t say that.” 

“ — And that when you are a Minister of State, and I 
throw open my drawing-room, we will challenge com- 
parison with any other house in London. Do you like the 
idea?” 

He put his arm round her and kissed her very fondly. 
She had assimilated his ambitions to a remarkable degree, 
and he was as surprised as he was delighted to find her 
almost as eager for his success as he himself could be. 
The two were by no means destitute of that community 
of interests and pursuits which has been said to constitute 
the best hope of wedded bliss. But Nan’s hopes were less 
material than Sydney’s. It was as yet a doubtful matter 
whether he would draw her down from her high standard, 
or whether she would succeed in raising him to hers. At 
present, satisfied with themselves and with each other, 
they were a thoroughly happy couple. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

AT MRS. CHIGWIN’S COTTAGE. 

Birchmead in the summer and autumn is a very different 
place from the Birchmead which Alan Walcott saw when 
he came down to visit his aunt in the early days of Feb- 
ruary. Then the year had not begun to move ; at most 
there was a crocus or a snowdrop in the sheltered corners 
of Mrs. Chigwin’s garden ; and, if it had not been for a 
wealth of holly round the borders of the village green, the 
whole place would have been destitute of color. 

But, in the summer, all is color and brightness. The 
blue sky, the emerald lawns, the dull red earth, the many- 
hued masses of foliage, from the dark copper beech to 


278 


NAME AND FAME. 


the light greys of the limes and poplars, mingle their 
broad effects upon their outspread canvas of Nature, and 
in the foreground a thousand flowers glow warmly from 
the well-kept gardens or the fertile meadow-side. Nowhere 
do the old-fashioned flowers of the field and garden seem 
to flourish more luxuriantly than at Birchmead, or come 
to fuller bloom, or linger for a longer season. Here, as 
elsewhere in the south of England, June and July are the 
richest months for profusion and color; but the two 
months that follow July may be made, with very little 
trouble, as gay and varied in their garden-show, if not so 
fragrant and exquisite. The glory of the roses and lilies 
has depai’ied, but in their place is much to compensate all 
sim[)le and unsophisticated lovers of their mother-earth. 

In tlie second week of October, Mrs. Chigwin was at 
work in her garden, with her dress tucked up, a basket in 
her left hand, and a large pair of scissors in her right. 
Every flower that had begun to fade, every withered leaf 
and overgrown shoot fell before those fatal shears, and was 
caught in the all-devouring basket ; and from time to time 
she bore a fresh load of snippets to their last resting-place. 
Her heart was in her work, and she would not rest until 
she had completed her round. From the clematis on the 
cottage wall and the jessamine over the porch she passed 
to a clump of variegated hollyhocks, and from them to the 
hedge of sweet peas, to the fuchsias almost as high as the 
peas, the purple and white phlox, the yellow evening prim- 
rose, and the many-colored asters. Stooping here and 
there, she carefully trimmed the rank-growing geraniums 
and the clusters of chrysanthemums, cut off the straggling 
branches of the mignonette and removed every passing 
bloom of harebell, heartsease, and heliotrope. 

The euthanasia of the fading blossoms filled her shallow 
skep half-a-dozen times over, and, to anyone ignorant (to 
his shame) of the art which our first ancestor surely learned 
from his mother, and loved, it might have seemed that Mrs. 
Chigwin used her scissors with a too unsparing hand. But 
the happy old soul knew what she was about. The even- 
ing was closing in, and she had cut both the flowers whose 
beauty had passed away and those which would have been 
wrinkled and flabby before the morning, knowing full well 
that only so can you reckon on the perfection of beauty 
from day to day. 


NAME AND FAME, 


279 


“ There, now,” she said, when her last basketful was 
disposed of, “ I have done. And if old Squire Jermyn, 
who first laid out this garden, was to come to life again to- 
morrow, there would be nothing in Martha Chigwin’s little 
plot to make his hair stand on end.” 

She threw her eyes comprehensively round the ring of 
cottages which encircled the village green, with a sniff of 
defiant challenge, as though she would dare any of her 
neighbors to make the same boast ; and then she came and 
sat down on the garden-seat, and said to her old friend and 
companion, 

“ What do you think about it, Elizabeth ? ” 

“You are right, Martha; right as you always are,” said 
Mrs. Bundlecombe, in a feeble voice. “ And I was think- 
ing as you went round, cutting off the flowers that have 
had their day, that if you had come to me and cut me off 
with the rest of them, there would have been one less poor 
old withered thing in the world. Here have I been a 
wretched cripple on your hands all the summer, and surely 
if the Lord had had any need for me He would not have 
broken my stalk and left me to shrivel up in the sunshine.” 

“ Now, Bessy,” said Mrs. Chigwin, severely, “ do you 
want to put out the light of peace that we have been enjoy- 
ing for days past? Fie, for shame ! and in a garden, too. 
Where’s your gratitude — or, leastways, where’s your 
patience ? ” 

“ There, there, Martha, you know I did not mean it. 
But I sit here thinking and thinking, till I could write 
whole volumes on the vanity of human wishes. Cut me 
off, indeed, just at this moment, when I am waiting to see 
my dear boy once more before I die ! ” 

Mrs. Bundlecombe was silent again, and the other did 
not disturb her, knowing by experience what the effort to 
speak would be likely to end in. 

Things had not gone well at Birchmead in the last six 
months. The news of Alan’s arrest on the charge of wife- 
murder — that was the exaggerated shape in which it first 
reached the village — was a terrible blow to poor Aunt 
Bessy. She was struck down by paralysis, and had to 
keep to her bed for many weeks, and even now she had only 
the partial use of her limbs. Mrs. Chigwin, buckling to 
her new task with heroic cheerfulness, had nursed and com- 
forted her, and lightened the burden of her life so far as 


28 o 


J\rAM£ AND FAME. 


that was possible. As soon as the cripple could be dressed 
and moved about, she had bought for her a light basket- 
chair, into which she used to lift her bodily. Whenever 
the weather was fine enough she would wheel her into the 
garden ; and she won the first apology for a laugh from 
Mrs. Bundlecombe when, having drawn her on the grass 
and settled her comfortably, she said, 

“ Now, Bessy, I have repotted you and put you in the 
sun on the same day as my balsams, and I shall expect you 
to be ready for planting out as soon as they are.” 

But that was too sanguine a hope, for Mrs. Bundlecombe 
was still in her chair, and there was not much chance of 
her ever being able to walk again. As it had been im- 
possible for her to go and see her nephew, either before 
his trial or since, Mrs. Chigwin had written a letter for her, 
entreating Alan to come to Birchmead as soon as he was 
free ; and the writer assured him on her own account that 
there was not a better place in England for quiet rest and 
consolation. They heard from the prison authorities that 
the letter had been received, and that it would be given to 
the prisoner ; and now Aunt Bessy was counting the days 
until his time had expired. 

There had been other changes at Birchmead in the 
course of the year. Mrs. Harrington no longer occupied 
the adjoining cottage, but lay at peace in the churchyard 
at Thorley. Her grand-daughter had written once to the 
old ladies from London, according to her ’promise j after 
which they had heard of her no more, although they sent 
her word of her grandmother’s death, to the address which 
she had given them. 

The sun was sinking low in the sky, and it was time for 
Mrs. Bundlecombe to be taken indoors. So Martha Chig- 
win wheeled her into the house, rapidly undressed her, and 
lifted her into bed. Then there was a chapter to be read 
aloud, and joint prayers to be repeated, and supper to be 
prepared; and Mrs. Chigwin had just made the two cups 
of gruel which represented the last duty of her busy day’s 
routine, when she heard a noise of wheels on the gravel 
outside. 

It was not a cart but a cab, and it stopped at the door. 
Cabs were not very familiar in Birchmead, and the appear- 
ance of this one at Mrs. Chigwin’s cottage brought curious 
eyes to almost every window looking out upon the green. 


I\rAMJt AND FAME. 


281 

There was not much to reward curiosity — only a lady, 
dressed in a long fur-lined cloak, with a quiet little bonnet, 
and a traveling-bag in her hand, who knocked at Mrs. 
Cliigwin’s door, and, after a short confabulation, dismissed 
the cabman and went in. At any rate it was something for 
Biichmead to know that it had a visitor who had come in 
a Dorminster cab. That was an incident which for these 
good souls distinguished the day from the one which went 
before and the one which came after it. 

It was Lettice Cami)ion who thus stirred the languid 
pulse of Birchmead. She had found her way like a minis- 
tering angel to the bedside of Alan’s aunt, within three or 
four days of her arrival in England. 

Mrs. Chigwin felt the utmost confidence in her visitor, 
both from what she had heard of her before and from what 
she saw of her as soon as she entered the cottage. Lettice 
could not have been kinder to her mother than she was to 
the poor crippled woman who had no claim upon her ser- 
vice. She told Mrs. Chigwin that so long as she was at 
Birchmead she should be Mrs. Bundlecombe’s nurse, and 
she evidently meant to keep her word. Aunt Bessy was 
comforted beyond measure by her appearance, and still 
more by the few words which Lettice whispered to her, in 
response to the forlorn appeal of the old woman’s eyes — 
so unutterably eloquent of the thoughts that were throb- 
bing in the hearts of both — 

“ I shall wait for him when he comes out ! ” 

“ God bless you ! ” said Aunt Bessy. 

“ The world has been cruel to him. He has only us two j 
we must try to comfort him,” whispered Lettice. 

“ I am past it, dearie. He has no one but you. You 
are enough for him.” 

And she went on in the slow and painful way which had 
become habitual to her. 

“ I have been tortured in my heart, thinking of his com- 
ing out upon the weary world, all alone, broken down may 
be, with none to take him by the hand, and me lying here 
upon my back, unable to help him. Oh, it is hard ! And 
sometimes in a dream I see his mother, Lucy, my own little 
sister that died so many years ago, floating over the walls of 
his prison, and signing to me to fetch him out. But now she 
will rest in her grave, and I myself could die to-night and be 
happy, because you will not forsake him. My dear, he loves 
you like his own soul I ” 


282 


//AME AND FAME. 


Lettice did not reply, but she kissed the cheek of Alan’s 
aunt, and bade her try to sleep. 

It was growing dark. Through the window she could 
trace the outlines of the garden below. She was tempted 
by the balmy night, and went out. 

“ He loves you like his own soul ! ” Was not that how 
she loved him, and was she not here in England to tell him 
so ? 

The question startled her, as though some one else had 
put it to her, and was waiting for an answer. That, surely, 
was not her object ; and yet, if not, what was ? From the 
hour when she read Sydney’s letter at Florence she seemed 
to have had a new motive power within her. She had 
acted hitherto from instinct, or from mere feeling ; she 
could scarcely recall a single argument which she had held 
with herself during the past ten days. She might have 
been walking in a dream, so little did she seem to have used 
her reason or her will. Yet much had happened since she 
left Italy. 

On Thursday she had arrived in London with Mrs. Hart- 
ley. 

On Saturday she went out by herself, and managed to 
see the governor of the gaol where Alan was lodged. From 
him she learned, to her dismay, that “Number 79 ” had 
had a severe and almost fatal illness. He was still very 
weak, though out of danger, and it was thought that with 
the careful attention which he was receiving in the infirm- 
ary he would probably be able to leave on the 29th of 
October. 

Captain Haynes told her that his prisoner appeared to 
have no relatives “ except the wife, who was not likely to 
give herself much trouble about him, and an aunt in the 
country who was paralyzed.” So, Lettice arranged to 
bring a carriage to the prison gates on the morning of the 
29th, and to fetch him away. 

Having learned Mrs. Bundlecombe’s address, thanks to 
the letter which had been written to the governor by Mrs. 
Chigwin, she came to Birchmead on Monday — lingering an 
hour or two at Angleford in order that she might see her 
native place again, and recall the image of the father whom 
she had loved and lost. 

Now, at length, her heart was in a measure contented 
and at rest. Now she could think, and reason with herself 


AND FAME, 


283- 


if need be. What did she mean to do ? What had she 
done already ? How had she committed herself? She was 
only too painfully aware that she had taken a step which 
there was no retracing. Had she not virtually broken with 
Mrs. Hartley, with the Daltons, with Sydney and his wife ? 
They would doubtless think so, whether she did or not. 
She had no illusions in the matter. Not one of them 
would forgive her — not even Mrs. Hartley — for her treat- 
ment of Brooke Dalton, for her independent action since 
she left Italy, and for her association with Alan Walcott. 

As for that — it was true that she had not yet gone too 
far. She had not coupled her name with Alan’s in any 
public manner, or in any way at all, except that she had 
used her own name when calling on Captain Haynes. He 
would not talk, and, therefore, it was not too late to act 
with greater secrecy and caution. She need not let anyone 
know that she had taken an interest in him, that she had 
been to his prison, and had promised to bring him away 
when he was released. Beyond that point of bringing 
him away she had not yet advanced, even in her own mind. 
What was to prevent her from sending a carriage, as though 
it had been provided by Aunt Bessy, and letting him find 
his way to Birchmead, or wherever he wished to go, like 
any other discharged prisoner. Then she would not shock 
her friends — she would not outrage the feelings of poor 
Sydney, who thought so much of the world’s opinion and 
of the name they held in common. 

That was a strong argument with her, for, to some 
extent, she sympathized with her brother’s ambitions, 
although she did not greatly esteem them. She would do all 
that she could to avoid hurting him. How much could 
she do ? Was it possible for her now, when she was calm 
and collected, to form a strong resolution and draw a clear 
line beyond which she would not let her pity for Alan Wal- 
cott carry her ? What she thought right, that she would do 
— no more, but certainly no less. Then what was right? 

There was the difficulty. Within the limits of a good 
conscience, she had' been guided almost entirely by her 
feelings, and they had led her so straight that she had never 
been prompted to ask herself such questions as What is 
right ? or What is the proper thing to do ? She had done 
good by intuition and nature ; and now it was out of her 
power to realize any other or stronger obligation than that 


284 


/\rAM£ AND FAME. 


of acting as nature bade her. One thing only was plain to 
her at the moment — that she must be kind to this man who 
had been persecuted, betrayed, and unjustly punished, and 
who, but for her, would be absolutely alone in the world. 
Could she be kind without going to meet him at the prison 
gates ? 

She was trying to persuade herself that she could : and 
so deeply was she absorbed by the struggle which was 
going on in her mind that she did not notice the feeble 
wailing sound which ever and anon came towards her on 
the silent night air. But, at last, a louder cry than before 
disturbed her quiet reverie, and startled her into attention. 

It seemed to be close at hand — a cry like that of a little 
child j and she stood up and peered into the shadow be- 
hind her. She could see nothing, but the wailing came 
again, and Lettice groped her way across the flower border, 
and stood by the low garden wall. 

There was just enough light to enable her to distinguish 
the form of a woman, crouching on the rank grass in what 
used to be Mrs. Harrington’s garden, and vainly attempt- 
ing to soothe the baby which she held in her arms. 

It was too dark to see the woman’s features, or to judge 
if she were in much distress, but Lettice could not be satis- 
fied to leave her where she was. 

“ Who are you ? ” she asked ; and, at the sound of her 
voice the little child was hushed, as though it knew that a 
friend was near. But the mother did not answer. 

“ What do you want? Why are you sitting there? Have 
you no home ? ” 

A very weak No ” reached her straining ears. 

“ Can you walk? Come here, if you can.” 

The figure did not move. 

Then I must get over the wall and come to you.’^ 

She was beginning to do as she had said, when the other 
slowly rose to her feet, and drew unwillingly a step nearer. 

“ Come,” said Lettice, kindly, but firmly. She felt that 
this was a woman over whom it would not be hard to exer- 
cise authority. 

Gradually the mother approached, with her baby in her 
arms, until she was within half-a-dozen yards of the wall. 
Then she leaned against the trunk of an old apple-tree, and 
would not come any further. 

Are you ill ? ” said Lettice, gently. 


NAME AND FAME. 285 

Again the half-heard ‘‘ No,” but this time accompanied 
by a sob. 

“ Then why are you out at this time, and with your poor 
little baby, too ? Have you walked far to-day ? ” 

“ From Thorley.” 

“ Do you live at Thorley ? ” 

“ Not now.” 

“ Where do you come from ? ” 

“ London.” 

“ Let me see your baby. Is it hungry, or cold? Why 
do you keep so far away from me ? and why are you cry- 
ing? Oh, Milly, Milly ! Is it you? Dear child, come to 
me ! ” 

Then the girl came from amongst the branches of the tree, 
and tottered to the wall, and laid her child in the arms 
stretched out to receive it. 

‘‘ Why did you not come to the door, Milly, instead of 
waiting out here ? You might have been sure of a wel- 
come ! ” 

She laid her hand on the head which was bowed down 
upon the wall, and which shook with the poor girl’s sobs. 
Her bonnet had fallen off, and hung on her back ; and 
Lettice noticed that the long hair of which the girl used to 
be so proud was gone. 

“ I did not come to the village till it was dark,” Milly 
said, as soon as she could speak. “ Then I should have 
knocked, but I saw you looking out at the window — and I 
was ashamed ! ” 

“ Ashamed ? ” said Lettice, in a low voice. There was 
one thing, she thought, of which Milly could be ashamed. 
She looked from the weeping mother to the baby’s face, and 
back again to Milly. “ My poor girl,” she said, with a 
sudden rush of tender feeling for the woman who had per- 
haps been tempted beyond her strength — so Lettice thought 
— “ my poor child, you don’t think / should be unkind to 
you ! ” 

‘‘ No, no ! you were always so kind to me, miss. And 
I — I - was so wicked — so ungrateful — so deceitful ” 

And with that she broke down utterly. Lettice’s arms 
were round her neck, and the young mother, feeling herself 
in the presence of a comforter at last, let loose her pent-up 
misery and sobbed aloud. 

“ Where is — he ? your husband? ” said Lettice, remem- 
bering that she had heard of Milly’s marriage from Mrs. 


286 


J\rAME AND FAME. 


Bundlecombe some time ago, and conjecturing chat some- 
thing had gone wrong, but not yet guessing the whole 
truth. 

Milly sobbed on for a minute or two withovit replying. 
Then she said, somewhat indistinctly, 

“ He’s gone away. Left me.” 

“ Left you ? But — for a time, you mean ? To look for 
work, perhaps ? ” 

“ No, no ; he has left me altogether. I shall never see 
him again — never ! ” said the girl, with sudden passion. 
“ Oh, don’t ask me any more. Miss Lettice, I can’t bear 
it ! ” 

“ No, no,” said Lettice, pitifully, “ I will ask you no 
questions, Milly. You shall tell me all about it or nothing, 
just as you like. We must not keep the baby out in the 
night air any longer. Come round to the door, and Mrs. 
Chigwin will let you in. I will tell her that you want a 
night’s lodging, and then we will arrange what you are to 
do to-morrow.” 

Milly did not move, however, from her position by the 
wall. She had ceased to sob, and was twisting her hand- 
kerchief nervously between her fingers. 

“ Do you think Mrs. Chigwin would let me in,” she said 
at last, in a very low voice, ‘‘ if she knew ? ” 

Lettice waited ; she saw there was more to come. 

“ Oh, Miss Lettice,” said the girl, with a subdued agony 
in her tone which went to Lettice’s heart ; “ it wasn’t all 

my fault I believed in him so I thought he 

would never deceive me nor behave unkindly to me. But 
I was deceived : I never was his wife, though I thought — 
I thought I was ! ” 

“ My dear,” said Lettice, gently, “ then you were not to 
blame. Mrs. Chigwin would only be sorry for you if she 
knew. But we will not tell her everything at once ; you 
must just come in, if only for baby’s sake, and get some 
food and rest. Come with me now.” 

And Milly yielded, feeling a certain comfort and relief 
in having so far told the truth to her former mistress. 

Mrs. Chigwin’s surprise, when she saw Lettice coming 
back with the baby in her arms, may well be imagined. 
But she behaved very kindly : she at once consented to take 
in Milly for the night and make her comfortable ; and, 
after one keen look at the girl’s changed and downcast 
face, she asked no questions. 


NAME AND FAME. 


287 


For Milly was wonderfully changed — there was no doubt 
of that. Her pretty fair hair was cropped close to her 
head ; her eyes were sunken, and the lids were red with 
tears ; the bloom had faded from her cheeks, and the 
roundness of youth had passed from face and form alike. 
Ill-health and sorrow had gone far to rob her of her fresh 
young beauty ; and the privations which she confessed to 
having experienced during the last few days had hollowed 
her eyes, sharpened her features, and bowed her slender 
form. Her dress was travel-stained and shabby ; her 
boots were down at heel and her thin hands were glove- 
less. Lattice noticed that she still wore a wedding-ring. 
But the neat trim look that had once been so characteristic 
was entirely lost. She was bedraggled and broken down ; 
and Lattice thought with a thrill of horror of what might 
have happened if Mrs. Chigwin had left Birchmead, or 
refused to take the wayfarer in. For a woman in Milly’s 
state there would probably have remained only two ways 
open — the river or the streets. 

“ I’ve never had five in my cottage before,” said Mrs. 
Chigwin, cheerfully; “ but where there’s room for two there’s 
room for half-a-dozen ; at least, when they’re women and 
children.” 

“You must have wondered what had become of me all 
this time,” said Lettice, 

“ Nay, ma’am ; you were in the garden, and that was 
enough for me. I knew you couldn’t be in a better place, 
whether you were sorrowing or rejoicing. Nought but 
good comes to one in a garden.” 

They set food before Milly, and let her rest and recover 
herself. The child won their hearts at once. It was clean, 
and healthy, and good to look at ; and if Lettice had 
known that it was her own little niece she could not have 
taken to it more kindly. Perhaps, indeed, she would not 
have taken to it at all. 

Lettice’s visit had greatly excited Mrs. Bundlecombe, 
who had for some time past been in that precarious state 
in which any excitement, however slight, is dangerous. She 
was completely ha])py, because she had jumped to the ' 
conclusion that Lettice would henceforth do for Alan all 
that she herself would have done if she had been able, but 
which it was now impossible for her to do. And then it 
was as though the feeble vitality which remained to her 


288 


NAME and fame. 


had begun to ebb away from the moment when her need 
for keeping it had disappeared. 

In the early morning, Lettice was roused from her sleep 
by the restlessness of her companion, and she sat up and 
looked at her. 

“ Dearie,” said the old woman, in a whisper, “ my time 
is come.” 

“ No, no ! ” said Lettice, standing by her side. “ Let me 
raise you a little on the pillow j you will feel better pre- 
sently.” 

“ Yes — better — in heaven ! You will take care of ray 
Alan ? ” 

“ Oh yes, dear!” 

“ And love him ? ” 

“ And love him.” 

“ Thank God for that. It will be the saving of him. 
Call Martha, my dear ! ” 

Lettice went and roused Mrs. Chigwin, who came and 
kissed her friend. Then, with a last effort. Aunt Bessy 
raised her head, and whispered, 

“ ‘ Lord, now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in 
peace 1 ’ ” 

The watchers scarcely heard the words ; but when she 
sank back upon her pillow, and smiled as though she had 
found the peace which passes understanding, they knew 
that she had gone. 

Lettice stayed on at Birchmead until she had seen Alan’s 
aunt carried to the church-yard, and laid under the shadow 
of the great yew trees. 

Aunt Bessy’s death changed her plans. It was no longer 
necessary for Alan to undertake so long a journey, and in 
his weak condition it might be better that he should not 
attempt it. But what was to be done ? She had promised 
Aunt Bessy to ‘‘ take care of him.” How could she do it? 
How do it, at least, without outraging the feelings of her 
brother and her friends ? She loved Sydney, although she 
had long ago ceased to be greatly in sympathy with him, 
and she had looked forward to the day when she could 
make friends with his wife and — by ar^d by — interest her- 
self in their children. She knew that Sydney would be 
against her in this. Ought she to consider him ? Should 
his opinion weigh with her or not ? 

She was still pondering this question on the day after the 
funeral, when something happened which went far towards 


J^AME AND FAME, 289 

removing her hesitation. She was sitting in Mrs. Chigwin’s 
garden, which was warm and dry in the afternoon sun. 
Mrs. Chigwin was indoors, vigorously “ straightening ” the 
house. Milly was sewing a frock for her child, and the 
child itself was tumbling about on a soft rug at her feet. 

During the past few days, little had been said respecting 
Milly’s future. Mrs. Bundlecombe’s death had thrown her 
history into the background, and she had not seemed eager 
to obtrude it on any of her friends. Lettice's assurance 
that she might safely stay where she was at present seemed 
to satisfy her. She had lost her briskness — her occasional 
pertness — of manner ; she was quiet and subdued, attach- 
ing herself with dog-like fidelity to Lettice’s steps, and 
showing that no satisfaction was so great as that of being 
allowed to wait on her. But her submissiveness had some- 
thing in it which pained Lettice, while it touched the 
deepest fibres of pity in her heart. 

She was vaguely wondering wha't it was that pained her 
— why there should be that touch of something almost like 
subserviency in Milly's manner, as if to make up for some 
past injury — when her eyes were arrested by a locket, 
which, tied by a black ribbon round Milly’s neck, had 
escaped from the bosom of her dress, and now hung 
exposed to view. 

It contained a portrait of Sydney’s face, evidently cut 
from a photograph by the girl herself. 

A flood of light entered Lettice’s mind ; but she took 
her discovery with outward calmness. No thought of 
accusing or upbraiding Milly ever occurred to her. Why 
should it? she would have said. It was not Milly who 
had been to blame, if the girl’s own story were true. It 
Avas Sydney who had been guilty of the blackest treachery, 
the basest of all crimes. She thought for a moment of his 
wife, with pity ; she looked with a new interest and tender- 
ness at the innocent child. She had no certainty — that 
was true ; but she had very little doubt as to the facts of 
the case. And, at any rate, she allowed her suspicion to 
decide her own course of action. Why need she care any 
longer what Sydney desired for her? His standard was 
not hers. She was not bound to think of his verdict — 
now. He had put himself out of court. She was not sure 
that she should even love him again, for the whole of her 


19 


290 


J\rAM£ AND FAME, 


pure and generous nature rose up in passionate repudia- 
tion of the man who could basely purchase his own 
pleasure at the expense of a woman’s soul, and she knew 
that he had thenceforth lost all power over her. No 
opinion of his on any matter of moral bearing could ever 
sway her again. The supreme scorn of his conduct which 
she felt impelled her to choose her own line of action, to 
make — or mar — for herself her own career. 

It was one of those moments in which the action of 
others has an unexpectedly vivifying result. We mortals 
may die, but our deed lives after us, and is immortal, and 
bears fruit to all time, sometimes evil and sometimes good. 
If the deed has been evil in the beginning, the fruit is often 
such as we who did it would give our lives, if we had the 
power, to destroy. 

Thus Sydney’s action had far-off issues which he could 
not foresee. It ruled the whole course of his sister’s after- 
life. 

There was a light shawl on Milly’s thin shoulders. 
Lettice took one end of it and drew it gently over the tell- 
tale locket. Then, unmindful of Milly’s start, and the 
feverish eagerness with which her trembling hand thrust 
the likeness out of sight, she spoke in a very gentle tone : 

“ You will take cold if you are not more careful of your- 
self. Have you thought, Milly, what you are to do now ? 
You want to earn a living for yourself and the child, do you 
not?” 

Milly looked at her with frightened, hopeless eyes. Had 
Miss Lettice seen the locket, and did she mean to cast her 
off for ever ? She stammered out some unintelligible words, 
but the fear that was uppermost in her mind made her 
incapable of a more definite reply. 

“You must do something for yourself. You do not 
expect to hear from your child’s father again, I supppose? ” 
said Lettice. 

“ He said — he said — he would send me money — if I 
wanted it,” said Milly, putting up one hand to shade her 
burning face ; “ but I would rather not ! ” 

“ No, you are quite right. You had better take nothing 
more from him— unless it is for the child. But I am think- 
ing of yourself. I am going back to London the day after 
to-morrow, and perhaps I may take a small house again, as 
I did before. Will you come with me, Milly? ’ 


NAME AND FAME. 


291 


This offer was too much for the girl’s equanimity. She 
burst into tears and sobbed vehemently, with her head 
upon her hands, for two or three minutes. 

“ I couldn’t,” she said at last. “ Oh, you’re very good. 
Miss Lettice — and it isn’t that I wouldn’t work my fingers 
to the bone for you — but I couldn’t come.” 

“Why not?” 

“ I deceived you before. I — I — should be deceiving 
you again. If you knew — all, you would not ask me.” 

“ I think I should, Milly. Perhaps I know more of your 
story than you have told me. But — at present, at any rate 
— I do not want to know more. I am not going to ques- 
tion you about the past. Because you cannot undo what 
is past, dear, however much you try, but you can live as 
if it had never happened ; or, better still, you can live a 
nobler life than you had strength to live before. Sorrow 
makes us stronger, Milly, if we take it in the right way. 
You have your little one to live for ; and you must be 
brave, and strong, and good, for her sake. Will you not 
try ? Will it not be easier now to look forward than to 
look back ? I used to teach you out of an old Book that 
speaks of ‘ forgetting the things that are behind.’ You 
must forget the things that lie behind you, Milly, and press 
forward to the better life that lies before you now.” 

The girl listened with an awed look upon her face. 

“ I am afraid,” she murmured. 

Forget your fear, dear, with the other things that you 
have to forget, and gather up your strength to make your 
little girl’s life a good and happy one. In that way, good 
will come out of evil — as it so often does. Will you 
try ? ” 

“ Yes,” said Milly, “ I’ll try — if you will help me — and 
— forgive me.” 

“ You will come with me, then,” Lettice rejoined, in a 
more cheerful tone. “ You can bring your child with you, 
and you shall have money enough to clothe her and your- 
self ; but you know, Milly, you must be ready to work and 
not to be idle. Then I shall be able to help you.” 

Milly was glad enough to be persuaded. She had learned 
a sad and bitter lesson, but she was the wiser for it. 

“ I shall be able to work better for you than I did at 
Maple Cottage,” she said, with touching humility. “ You 
see I know more than I did, and I shall have more heart 


292 


J\rAME AND FAME, 


in ray work. And — ” with sudden vehemence — “ I would 
work iox you i Miss Lettice, to my life’s end.” 

So it was arranged that they were to go up to London 
together. Mrs. Chigwin moaned a little about her pros- 
pect of loneliness. “ But there,” she said, ‘‘ I am not going 
to make the worst of it. And nobody that has a garden 
is ever really lonely, unless she has lost her self-respect, or 
taken to loving herself better than her fellow-creatures. 
By which,” she added, “ I do not mean snails and spar- 
rows, but honest and sensible flowers.” 


BOOK VI 


SUCCESS. 

“ May I reach 

That purest heaven, be to other souls 
The cup of strength in some great agony. 
Enkindle generous ardor, feed pure love. 
Beget the smiles that have no cruelty. 

Be the sweet presence of a good diffused 
And in diffusion ever more intense. 

So shall I join the choir invisible 
Whose gladness is the music of the world.” 


George Euot. 




JVAM£: AND FAME, 


295 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

AT THE PRISON GATE. 

Months had passed since Lettice nad written a page of 
her story. The arrival of the Daltons at Florence had in- 
terrupted her at a critical point. She had not yet acquired 
the mechanic art of stopping and going on again as at the 
turn of a handle, in obedience to a law of demand and 
supply; and she would probably have been unable to 
gather up her threads and continue the old woof, even if 
she had made the effort. But she had not made the effort, 
and now that she was back in London again it seemed less 
possible than ever that she should sit down and make it. 

This was a serious matter, for the book was to have been 
done to order. She had undertaken to furnish the whole 
of the manuscript by the middle of November, and now 
the time had come when she was obliged to admit that 
this was quite impracticable. She had hoped to put such 
a constraint upon herself at Birchmead as would have 
enabled her to fulfil her promise in the spirit, and to ask a 
fortnight’s grace for the completion of the manuscript. 
But circumstances had prevented her from writing a single 
line, and she gave up the idea as hopeless. 

So^hen she came up to London, three days before the 
end of October, she called upon the publisher with whom 
she had made her agreement, and confessed her inability 
to keep her word. Mr. MacAlpine was polite, but at the 
same time evidently vexed. If Miss Campion had been 
ill he was very sorry to hear it, but he liked to be able to 
rely on the engagements which he made. 

“ Pray don’t let it trouble you,” he said, seeing that her 
face had begun to fall. “ When do you think you can be 
ready ? I must have your next story, at any rate. Take 
another three months.” 

“ That is very good of you,” said Lettice. I think I 
can promise it before the end of January.” 


296 


NAME AND FAME. 


So it was settled, and Lettice went away contented. 

The discovery which she had made in regard to Sydney 
and Emily Harrington had destroyed her former scruples 
as to the displeasure which Sydney might feel if he were to 
hear what she now contemplated. She had no wish to 
punish her brother. She thought he had been cruel, and 
indifferent to the suffering which he had caused j but she 
was not moved by anything like a vindictive feeling towards 
him. She had simply lost the scruples which had beset* 
her, and there was no longer a desire in her mind to 
avoid a mere semblance of unconventionality for his 
sake. 

She had chosen three rooms on the ground-floor of a 
house in a long and dreary terrace, the windows of which 
looked across an intervening waste to the walls of Alan’s 
prison ; and here she watched and waited. 

The time hung heavy on her hands. She could do 
nothing, read nothing, think of nothing — except of the un- 
happy man within those walls, who had been brought to 
death’s door, and who must have known a living death for 
the past six months. To her, merely looking at the walls 
and thinking of their victim, every minute seemed an hour, 
and every hour a day of blank despair. What must the 
minutes and hours have seemed to him, buried alive in that 
hideous pile of bricks, and in the yet more hideous pile of 
false accusations and unmerited disgrace ? 

She had found out the date of the trial, and procured 
the papers in which it was reported. The whole wretched 
story was before her now. She saw how the web had been 
weaved round him ; she understood the pains which had 
been taken to keep her own name from being mentioned ; 
and she noted with burning indignation the persistency 
with which Sydney had labored, apparently, to secure a 
conviction. 

She was on the point of seeking out Mr. Larmer, in order 
to learn from him the assurance of innocence which Alan 
must have given to his solicitor ; but she refrained. It 
would look as though she wanted evidence of what she 
believed so absolutely without any evidence ; and besides, 
was it not one of the pleasures which she had promised 
herself, to hear from Alan’s own lips all that he cared for 
her to hear ? 

She stood by her window in the evening, and saw the 
lights spring up one by one about the frowning gates of 


NAME AND FAME. 


297 


the prison. She was quite alone, Milly having gone out 
with her baby to buy her some clothes. Lettice was mis- 
erable and depressed, in spite of her good intentions ; and 
as she stood, half leaning against the shutter in unconscious 
weariness of body, yet intent with all her mind upon the 
one subject that engrossed her, she heard the distant stroke 
of a tolling bell. 

Dong ! — dong ! — dong ! it sounded, with long intervals 
between the notes. Straight across the vacant ground, 
from the shrouded walls of Alan’s dungeon, and into the 
contracting fibres of her own tortured heart, it smote with 
sudden terror, turning her blood to ice and her cheeks to 
livid whiteness. 

Great heaven, it was a death-knell. Could it be Alan 
who was dead ! 

For a moment she felt as if she must needs rush into the 
street and break open those prison gates, must ascertain 
at once that Alan was still alive. She went out into the 
hall and stood for a moment hesitating. Should she go ? 
and would they tell her at the gates if Alan was alive or 
dead ? 

The landlady heard her moving, and came out of a little 
apartment at the back of the house, to see what was going 
on. 

“ Were you going out, ma’am ? ” she asked, curiously. 

“ I ? no ; at least,” said Lettice, with somewhat difficult 
utterance, “ I was only wondering what that bell was, 
and ” 

“ Oh, that’s a bell from the church close by. Sounds 
exactly like a passing-bell, don’t it, ma’am ? And appro- 
priate too. For my son, who is one of the warders, as I 
think Fve mentioned to you, was here this afternoon, and 
tells me that one of the prisoners is dead. A gentleman, 
loo : the one that there was so much talk about a little 
while ago.” 

Lettice leaned against the passage wall, glad that in the 
gathering darkness her face could not be seen. 

Was his name — Walcott ? ” she asked. 

“ Yes, that was it. At least I think so. I know it was 
Wal — something. He was in for assault, I believe, and 
a nicer, quieter-spoken gentleman, my son says he never 
saw. But he died this afternoon, I understand, between 
five and six o’clock — just as his time was nearly out, too, 
poor man.” 


298 


JVAMB AND FAME, 


Lettice made no answer. She stole back into her sitting- 
room and shut the door. 

So this was the end. The prisoner was released, indeed ; 
but no mortal voice had told him he was free, no earthly 
friend had met him at tlie door. 

She fell on her knees, and prayed that the soul which 
had been persecuted might have rest. Then, when the 
last stroke of the bell had died away, she sat down in mute 
despair, and felt that she had lost the best thing life had to 
give her. 

Outside upon the pavement men and women were pass- 
ing to and fro. There was no forecourt to the house ; 
passers-by walked close to the windows ; they could look 
in if they tried. Lettice had not lighted a candle, and had 
not drawn her blinds, but a gas-lamp standing just in front 
threw a feeble glimmer into the room, which fell upon her 
where she sat. As the shadows deepened the light grew 
stronger, and falling direct upon her eyes, rnised her at 
last from the lethargy into which she had sunk. 

She got up and walked to the window, intending to close 
the shutters. Listlessly for a moment she looked out into 
the street, where the gas-light flickered upon the meeting 
streams of humanity — old folk and young, busy and idle, 
hopeful and despairing, all bent on their own designs, 
heedless like herself of the jostling world around them. 

She had the shutter in her hand, and was turning it upon 
its hinges, when a face in the crowd suddenly arrested her. 
She had seen it once, that ghastly painted face, and it had 
haunted her in her dreams for weeks and months after- 
wards. It had tyrannized over her in her sickness, and only 
left her in peace, when she began to recover her strength 
under the bright Italian skies. And now she saw her again, 
the wife who had wrecked her husband’s happiness, for 
whom he had lingered in a cruel prison, who flaunted her- 
self in the streets whilst Alan’s brave and generous heart 
was stilled for ever. 

Cora turned her face as she passed the window, and 
looked in. She might not in that uncertain light have 
recognized the woman whose form stood out from the dark- 
ness behind her, but an impulse moved Lettice which she 
could not resist. At the moment when the other turned 
her head she beckoned to her with her hand, and quickly 
threw up the sash of the window. 


JVAMB AA^D FAME, 


299 


“ Mon Dieu ! ” said Cora, coming up close to her, “ is it 
really you ? What do you want with me ? ” 

“ Come in ! I must speak to you.” 

I love you not, Lettice Campion, and you love not me. 
What would you ? ” 

I have a message for you — come inside.” 

“ A message ! Sapristi ! Then I must know it. Open 
your door.” 

Lettice closed the window and the shutters, and brought 
her visitor inside. 

The woman of the study and the woman of the pave- 
ment looked at each other, standing face to face for some 
minutes without speaking a word. They were a contrast 
of civilization, whom nature had not intended to contrast, 
and it would have been difficult to find a stronger antagon- 
ism between two women who under identical training and 
circumstances might have been expected to develop simi- 
lar tastes, and character, and bearing. Both had strong 
and well-turned figures, above the middle height, erect and 
striking, both had noble features, natural grace and vivacity, 
constitutions which fitted them for keen enjoyment and 
zest in life. But from their infancy onward they had been sub- 
jected to influences as different as it is possible to imagine. 
To one duty had been the ideal and the guide of existence ; 
the other had been taught to aim at pleasure as the su- 
preme good. One had ripened into a self-sacrificing 
woman, to whom a spontaneous feeling of duty was more 
imperative than the rules and laws in which she had been 
trained ; the other had degenerated into a wretched slave 
of her instincts, for whom the pursuit of pleasure had be- 
come a hateful yet inevitable servitude. Perhaps, as they 
stood side by side, the immeasurable distance which divid- 
ed them mind from mind and body from body was apparent 
to both. Perhaps each thought at that moment of the man 
whose life they had so deeply affected — perhaps each 
realized what Alan Walcott must have thought and felt 
about the other. 

“ Why have you brought me here ? ” said Cora aj; last 
in a defiant voice. 

“ It was a sudden thought. I saw you, and I wanted to 
speak to you.” 

“ Then you have no message as you pretended? You 
are very polite, mademoiselle. You are pleased to amuse 
yourself at my expense ? ” 


300 


JVAME AND FAME. 


“ No, I am not amusing myself,’* said Lettice. There 
was a ring of sadness in her tones, which did not escape 
Cora’s attention. She argued weakness from it, and grew 
more bold. 

“ Are you not afraid ? ’* she said, menacingly. “ Do you 
not think that I have the power to hurt — as I have hurt 
you before — the power, and, still more, the will ? ” 

“ I am not afraid.” 

“ Not afraid ! You are hatefully quiet and impassive, 
just like — ah, like all your race ! Are you always so cold 
and still? Have you no blood in your veins ? ” 

“ If you will sit down,” said Lettice steadily, “ I will 
tell you something that you ought to know. It is useless 
trying to frighten me with your threats. Sit down and rest 
if you will ; I will get you food or coffee, if you care for 
either. But there is something that I want to say.” 

Cora stared at her scornfully. “ Food ! Coffee ! Do you 
think I am starving?” she asked, with a savage little 
laugh. “ I have as much money as I want — more than you 
are ever likely to have, mademoiselle. You are very naive, 
mon enfant. You invite me into your room — Lettice Cam- 
pion invites Cora Walcott into her room ! — where nobody 
knows us, nobody could trace us — and you quietly ask me 
to eat and drink ! Eat and drink in this h use? It is so 
likely ! How am I to tell, for exam^-le, if your coffee is not 
poisoned ? You would not be very sorry if I were to die ! 
Parbleu, if you want to poison me, you should tempt me 
with brandy or champagne. Have you neither of those to 
offer me ? ” 

Lettice had drawn back at the first hint of this insinua- 
tion, with a look of irrepressible disgust. She answered 
coldly, “ I have neither brandy nor champagne to give 
you.” 

“ Allons, done ! Why do I stay here then ? ” said Cora 
jumping up from the chair where she had sealed herself. 
“ This is very wearisome. Your idea was not very clever. 
Mademoiselle Lettice ; you should lay your plans better if 
you want to trick a woman like me.” 

“ Why should I wish to trick you ? ” said Lettice, with 
grave, quiet scorn. “ What object could I have in killing 
you ? ” 

“ Ma foi, what object should you not have ? Revenge, 
of course. Have I not injured you ? have I not taken 


NAME AND FAME. 


301 


away your good name already ? All who know you have 
heard my story, and many who do not know you ; and near- 
ly every one of them believes it to be true. You robbed me 
of my husband, mademoiselle, you know it j and you have 
but too good reason to wish me dead, in order that you may 
take a wife’s place at the convict’s side.” 

“ You are mad. Listen to me ” 

I will listen to nothing. I will speak now. I will give 
you a last warning. Do you know what this is ? ” 

She took a bottle from her pocket, a bottle of fluted, 
dark-colored glass, and held it in her hand. 

“ Look ! This is vitriol, the friend of the injured and 
the defenceless. I have carried it with me ever since I 
followed my husband to your house at Brook Green, and 
saw you making signals to him at midnight. I came once 
after that, and knocked at your door, intending then to 
avenge my wrongs ; but you had gone away, and I was bru- 
tally treated by your police. But if I could not punish you 
I could punish ///>«, for he belonged to me and not to you, 
and I had a right to make him suffer. I have made him suffer 
a little, it seems to me. Wait — I have more to say. Shall I 
make him suffer more ? I have punished you through him ; 
shall I punish him through you ? For he would not like you 
to be maimed and disfigured through life : his sensitive soul 
would writhe, would it not? to know that you were suffer- 
ing pain. Do you know wliat this magic water is? It 
stings and bites and eats away the flesh — it will blind you 
so that you can never see him again ; and it will mar your 
white face so that he will never want to look at you. This 
is what I carry about for you.” 

Lettice watched the hand that held the bottle ; but in 
truth slie thouglit very little of the threat. Death had 
done for her already what this woman was talking about. 
Alan was past the love or vengeance of either of them, and 
all her pleasure in life was gone for ever. 

“ I thought I should find you here,” Cora went on, 
waiting at the prison for your lover ! But I am waiting 
for him, too. I am his wife still. I have the right to wait 
for him, and you have not. And if you are there when he 
comes out, I shall stay my hand no longer. I warn you ; 
so be prepared. But perhaps ” — and she lifted the bottle, 
while her eyes flamed with dangerous light, and her voice 
sank to a sharp whisper — perhaps it would be better to 
settle the question now I ” 


302 


J\rAME AND FAME, 


“The question,” said Lettice, with almost unnatural 
calm of manner, “ is settled for us. Alan has left his pri- 
son. Your husband is dead.” 

The woman gazed at her in stupefaction. Her hand fell 
to her side, and the light died out of her bold black eyes. 

“ Alan dead ! What is it you say ? How do you 
know ? ” 

“ He had a fever in the jail to which you sent him. He 
has been at death’s door for many weeks. Not an hour 
ago a warder came here and said that he was dead. Are 
you satisfied with your work ? ” 

“My work?” said Cora, drawing back. “I have not 
killed him ! ” 

“Yes,” said Lettice, a surge of bitter anger rising in her 
heart, “ yes, you have killed him, as surely as you tried to 
kill him with your pistol at Aix-les-Bains, and with his own 
dagger in Surrey Street. You are a murderess, and you know 
it well. But for you, Alan Walcott would still be living an 
honorable, happy life. You have stabbed him to the heart, 
and he is dead. That is the message I have to give you — to 
tell you that you have killed him, and that he is gone to a 
land where your unnatural hate can no longer follow him ! ” 

Lettice stood over the cowering woman, strong and un- 
pitying in her stern indignation, lifted out of all thought of 
herself by the intensity of her woe. Cora shrank away 
from her, slipping the bottle into her pocket, and even 
covertly making the sign of the cross as Lettice’s last words 
fell upon her ear — words that sounded to her untutored ima- 
gination like a curse. But she could not be subdued for 
long. She stood silent for a few moments when Lettice 
ceased to speak, but finally a forced laugh issued from the 
lips that had grown pale beneath her paint. 

“ Tiens ! ” she said. “ You will do the mourning for us 
both, it seems. Well, as I never loved him, you cannot 
expect me to cry at his death. And I shall get his money, 
I suppose ; the money that he grudged me in his life-time : 
it will be mine now, and I can spend it as I choose. I 
thank you for your information, mademoiselle, and I par- 
don you the insults which you have heaped upon my* head 
to-night. If I have my regrets, I do not exhibit them in 
your fashion. Good-night, mademoiselle : il me fain abso- 
lument de I’eau de vie — I can wait for it no longer. Bon 
soir 1 ” 


J\rAAf£: AND FAME. 


303 


She turned and left the house as rapidly as she had come. 
Lettice sank down upon a couch, and hid her face in the 
cushion. She-could not shed a tear, but she was trembling 
from head to foot, and felt sick and faint. 

As Cora sauntered along the pavement, turning her head 
restlessly from side to side, her attention was caught by a 
young woman carrying a child, who went in at Lettice’s 
door. Mrs. Walcott stopped short, and put her finger to 
her forehead with a bewildered air. “ Now where have I 
seen that face ? ” she muttered to herself. 

After a moment’s reflection, she burst into a short, harsh 
laugh, and snapped her fingers at the blind of Lettice’s 
room. “ I know now,” she said. “ Oh yes, I know where 
I have seen that face before. This will justify me in the 
eyes of the world as nothing else has done. Bon soir, 
Madame Lettice. Oh, I have a new weapon against you 
now.” 

And then she went upon her way, leaving behind her 
the echo of her wicked laugh upon the still night air. 


CHAPTEB XXXIV. 

A BRAVE PURPOSE. 

If Lettice had not seen Cora when she did, she would pro- 
bably have gone to the prison that evening, to ask whether 
she could not arrange for Alan’s funeral, as she could not 
arrange for his release. Her spirit was crushed by the 
blow which had fallen on her, but she could not give way 
so long as his body was there to receive the last token of 
her love. When the Frenchwoman left her it was too late 
to see Captain Haynes, even if she had been physically 
able to make the attempt. 

It never occurred to her to think that any mistake could 
have been made in the information she had received from 
her landlady. The struggle which had been going on in 
her mind, the consciousness that she had broken with all 
her old friends, the exaltation which had possessed her 
since she resolved to give to Alan all that was possible for 
her to give, or seemed to be worth her giving, the death of 
his aunt and the thought of his loneliness, had combined 


304 


J\rAME AND FAME. 


to make her nervously apprehensive. As soon as she had 
settled down under the shadow of the prison walls, the idea 
took hold of her with unaccountable force that the life of 
Alan was hanging by a thread, and the news of his death 
came to her only as tlie full confirmation of her fears. 

But, as it happened, there was another man in the prison 
named Walters, who had been convicted of an assault upon 
his wife some time previously, and had been ill for many 
months of an internal complaint which was certain, sooner 
or later, to end fatally. 

A sleepless night brought Lettice no ray of hope, and it 
was with a heavy and despairing heart that she went to the 
governor’s residence next morning, and sent up to him the 
note which she had written before leaving her room. 

Captain Haynes remembered her former visit, and being 
disengaged at the moment, he came down at once. 

“ My dear lady,” he said, bustling into the room, “ what 
is the meaning of this letter ? What makes you talk of 
burying your friend ? He has been in this tomb of stone 
long enough to purge him of all his offenses, and 1 am sure 
you don’t want to bury him alive again ! ” 

Lettice started to her feet, gazed at the speaker with 
straining eyes, and pressed her hands upon her tumultuous 
heart. 

“ Is — he — alive ? ” she gasped, in scarcely audible 
words. 

“Of course he is alive ! I told you when you were here 
before that he was out of danger. All he wants now is 
careful nursing and cheerful company ; and I must say 
that you don’t quite look as if you could give him either.” 

“ Alive — alive ! Thank God ! ” 

A great wave of tenderness swept through her heart, and 
gushed from her eyes in tears that were eloquent of hap- 
piness. 

“ I was told that he was dead ! ” She looked at the 
governor with a smile which disarmed his bluff tongue. 

“ I am on the border-land of a romance,” he thought, 
“ and a romance of which the ending will be pleasanter than 
the beginning, unless I am much mistaken. This is not 
the wife ; it is the woman he was writing his verses to 
before he took the fever. The doctor says she has written 
the best novel of the year. Novels and poetry — umph I 
not much in my line.” 


JVAME AND FAME. 


305 


Then aloud, “ you are under a mistake. A man named 
Walters died yesterday ; perhaps that is how you have 
been misled. Some rumor of his death must have got 
abroad. Mr. Walcott is getting over his illness very 
nicely ; but he will need a good rest, good food, and as 
much cheerfulness as you can give him. I told him, just 
now, that you had arranged to meet him to-morrow, and I 
fancy it roused him more than anything Dr. Savill has done 
for him. I must wish you good-morning, madam ! — but 
let me impress upon you again, before you go, that he is 
to be kept perfectly quiet, free from anxiety, and as cheer- 
ful as you can manage to make him.” 

Captain Haynes was rather ashamed of the laxity into 
which Miss Campion had drawn him. He was not accus- 
tomed to display so much sympathy with his prisoners, 
whatever he may have felt in his own mind. But, to be sure, 
the case was quite exceptional. He did not have prisoners 
like Alan or visitors like Lettice every day. So he had no 
difficulty in finding excuses for himself. 

Lettice walked on air as she came out of the precincts 
of the jail, which had now lost all its terrors. In less than 
twenty-four hours she was to come again, and transport 
her hero — whom the dense and cruel world had branded as 
a criminal — from slavery to freedom, from misery to peace 
and joy. The world had cast him out ; well, then, let the 
world stand aside, that she might give this man what was 
his due. 

What would she say to him ? Ah, she dare not think of 
that beforehand ! 

What would she do for him ? For one thing, she would 
give him back his self-respect. He had been the object of 
scorn and the victim of lying scandals. He should find 
that the woman he loved intended from henceforth to take 
those paltry burdens on herself, and to know no other 
praise or merit than that which came to her from him. 

He had borne troubles and suffered injuries which before 
now had driven men to suicide, or madness, or self-aban- 
donment. In order to save him from any of these things 
she meant to give herself into his hands, without terms or 
conditions, in order that the wrong-doing of the world 
might be righted by her act, were it ever so little. 

Who could call that a sacrifice which made her heart so 
light, her step so elastic, her eyes so bright with hope and 

20 


3o6 


J\rAME AND FAME, 


satisfaction? It was no sacrifice, but a triumph and 
reward of the highest kind that she was preparing for her- 
self. How should she not be happy ? 

There was no time to be lost if she was to provide all 
that was necessary for the well-being and comfort of her 
patient before to-morrow morning. Everything had to be 
done at the last moment. She had been so long in coming 
to a definite and final resolution to treat this friendless dis- 
charged prisoner as a hero and a king, that it was almost 
too late to make any arrangements. Why had she not 
done yesterday something of what she had left to be done 
to day? She scarcely realized to herself that her mind was 
only just made up. That facile belief in the report -of 
Alan’s death was only the outcome of her distress and per- 
plexity — of the failure of her courage on the threshold of 
decision and action. 

With a cold shudder she thought of the dust which she 
had unwittingly thrown in Cora’s eyes. She had told her 
that her husband was dead, and the tale had been readily 
believed, for the very opposite reason to that which had 
prevailed with herself. She had been convinced by her 
fears — Cora by her hopes and greed. And now she could 
not undeceive the woman, for she did not know where to 
find her. Would she if she could ? Perhaps it was the 
the best thing which could have happened ; for it would 
be terrible if Alan were to step out of his prison back into 
the hell on earth which that woman had created for him. 

Well, now, at any jate, she must devote herself to the 
task which she had undertaken. She felt as a sister might 
feel who had been suddenly commissioned to provide a 
home within twenty-four hours for an invalided traveler ; 
and she set about the work with enthusiasm. 

She began by taking Milly in some measure into her 
confidence, and giving her a number of directions as to 
what she was to do in the course of the day. Then she 
hired a cab, and went to a house-agent whose name she 
remembered. That seemed the quickest way of getting 
what she wanted — a small furnished house, cheerful and 
yet retired, which she could take at any rate for a month, 
and for longer if she needed it. The agent by good chance 
had the very thing she asked for. He turned over the 
leaves of his register, and presently came upon “a desir- 
able bijou residence, plainly but adequately furnished, con- 


NAME AND FAME. 


307 


taining three reception rooms and five bedrooms, conser* 
vatory, with large and well-stocked garden, lawn and 
shrubbery, coach-house and stable. Vacant for three 
months j very moderate terms to a suitable tenant.” That 
sounded well. The “ very moderate terms ” came to some- 
thing more than Lettice wanted to give ; but she had a 
hundred pounds in her pocket, and a spirit which disdained 
to grudge in such a service. 

So, having journeyed to Chiswick, and found Bute 
Lodge to be, if not precisely a jewel amongst lodges, at 
any rate clean and comfortable, she came back to the agent 
with an offer to take it from month to month, and with a 
foil of notes ready to clinch the bargain. ^loney is the 
best reference, as she found when she paid a month’s rent 
on the spot, and promised that all her payments should be 
in advance. But, as the agent had asked her for a reference 
of another kind, Lettice, who had expected this demand, 
and was prepared for it, gave the name of James Graham. 
She ought not to have made use of him without asking him 
beforehand. She might have referred to the owner of 
Maple Cottage, where she had lived when last in London, 
or even to her publisher. But she wanted to go and see 
her old friend Clara ; and, woman-like, did a more impor- 
tant thing to serve as a pretext for a less important. 

Clara Graham was delighted to see her again, and the 
two women had a long and confidential talk. 

‘‘ I, at any rate,” said Clara, ‘‘ have never doubted his 
innocence, and I was sure that you would not.” 

“ Yet you never told me what troubles had fallen upon 
him ! ” 

“ My dear, I thought you must have heard about it all. 
But the fact was that James asked me not to mention the 
trial. Remember, you were not well at the time ; and it 
was a difficult case. I could not quite assume that your 
interest would be strong enough to justify me in risking the 
loss of your health — perhaps of your life. Really, it is a 
hard question to deal with — like ane of those cases of con- 
science (didn’t they call them ?) which men used to argue 
for the sake of having something to do. I stood up for 
poor Mr. Walcott with my husband j but you know it is 
useless to argue against him.” 

“ He believes with the rest of them ? ’ 

‘‘ Everybody believes alike. I never heard of one who 
thought that he did not do it.” 


3o8 


NAME AND FAME. 


' Only yourself ! ” 

“ Yes, and that was, perhaps, for your sake,” said Clara, 
affectionately. 

“ And I suppose that I believe in him for his own 
sake.” 

“ That is natural ; but will people think that it is logi- 
cal ? ” 

“ No, they won’t,” said Lettice, “ at all events, not at 
first. But, gradually perhaps, they will. I am perfectly 
convinced that Alan did not stab his wife — because I feel 
it with a force that amounts to conviction. You see, I 
know his character, his past history, the character and his- 
tory of his wife, the circumstances in which they were 
placed at the time. I am sure he is innocent, and I am 
going to act up to it. Alan will live down this horrible 
accusation and punishment — he will not give way, but will 
keep his self-respect, and will do infinitely better work for 
all the torture he has gone through. And our hope must 
be this — that when the world sees him stronger than ever, 
stronger in every way, and doing stronger work in his 
vocation, it will come to believe in him, one by one, begin- 
ning with us, until his vindication is brought about, not by 
legal proof, which is impossible, but by the same feeling 
and conviction which to-day only draw two weak women 
to the side of an unhappy and discredited man.” 

“ Are you calling yourself a weak woman ? You have 
the strength of a martyr, and in days when they used to 
burn women you would have chosen to be a martyr.” 

“ I am not so sure. It is one thing to do what one likes, 
but quite another thing to burn, which no one likes.” 

“ Well, you are very brave, and you will succeed as you 
deserve. But not at first.” 

“ No, not at first. The hardest task will be with Alan, 
who has been in despair all these months, and at death’s 
door with fever. He will come out weak, helpless, hope- 
less ; there will be constant danger of a relapse ; and, even 
if he can be made to forget his despair, it will be very diffi- 
cult to restore him to cheerfulness.” Her eyes filled with 
pitying tears as she spoke. 

‘‘ Only one thing can do that ! ” Clara stroked her 
friend’s bright brown hair, and kissed her on the cheek. 
“ With you for his doctor he will soon be well.” 

“ Only two things can do it — a joy greater than his sor- 
row, and a self-respect greater than his self-abasement.” 


JVAME AND FAME, 


309 


Lattice stood up ; and the far reaching look that Clara 
knew so well came into the true and tender grey eyes, 
strong with all the rapt purpose of a devoted woman. Her 
resolutions were forming and strengthening as she went on. 
She had been guided by instinct and feeling, but they were 
guiding her aright. 

There was one thing more in which Clara was a help to 
her. She took her to an old woman, the mother of her 
own parlor-maid, exceptionally clean and respectable, whom 
Lettice engaged to go at once to Bute Lodge, taking a 
younger daughter with her, and make everything ready for 
the morrow. 

“ I shall come and see you soon,” said Clara, as they 
wished each other good-bye. 

“ Do ! And if you can convert your husband ” 

“ If not, it will not be for want of trying.” 

It was evening before Lettice was at her lodging again. 
She had done all that she could think of — made every pre- 
paration and taken every precaution — and now there was 
nothing left but to wait until the appointed hour should 
strike, and Alan should be a free man again. 

One concession she made to Mrs. Graham’s sense of pro- 
priety. There was an old lady who had once been Clara’s 
governess — a gentle, mild-tongued, unobservant person, 
who was greatly in want of a home. Mrs. Alison was easily 
induced to promise the support of her presence to Lettice 
during the days or weeks which Lettice hoped to spend at 
Bute Lodge. She was a woman of unimpeachable decorum 
and respectability, and her presence in the house would, in 
Clara’s opinion, prove a bulwark against all dangers ; but, 
although evil tongues might be silenced by the fact of her 
presence, the old lady was singularly useless in the capa- 
city of chaperon. She was infirm, a little deaf, and very 
shy ; but her presence in the house was supposed to be a 
sop to Cerberus, in the person of Mrs. Grundy, and Clara 
was less afraid for her friend than she had been before 
Mrs. Alison was installed at Bute Lodge. 


310 


//AM£ AND FAME. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

FROM PRISON TO PARADISE. 

PuNCTTTALLY at ten o’clock on the 29th of October a 
brougham drove up to the gates of the prison in which 
Alan Walcott had spent his six months of retreat from the 
world ; and almost immediately Alan made his appearance, 
leaning on the arm of a warder. 

Lettice hurried to meet him, displacing the warder with 
a few words of thanks, and repressing with an effort the 
painful throbbing of her heart and throat. The sight of 
his shrunken form and hollow eyes, as he looked at her 
with pathetic and childlike trust, for a moment took away 
all her strength ; but when his hand was laid upon her arm, 
and she accommodated her steps to his slow and unsteady 
movements, he found in her no trace of the weakness she 
had overcome. 

It was clear that he had not yet made a good recovery 
from his fever. Le-ttice’s last little qualm of doubt as to 
the use or need for what she had done disappeared as she 
saw this wreck of the man whom she loved — whom she 
believed to be innocent of offense and persecuted by an 
evil fate. What might have become of him if he had been 
left to crawl out of his prison into the cold and censorious 
world, without a friend, a hope, or an interest in life ? 
. What lowest depth of despair might he not have touched 
if in such a plight as this he should be found and tortured 
anew by his old enemy, whose cruelty was evidently not 
assuaged by the sufferings she had heaped upon him? 
Who now would say that he had no need of succor, that 
her service was unasked, unwarranted, unwomanly, that 
the duty of a pure and delicate soul was to leave him 
either to his own wife or to the tender mercies of strangers ? 

The carriage was piled with cushions and shawls, the 
day was bright and warm, Lettice was full of light gossip 
and cheerfulness, and Alan had reason to think that he 
had never had a more delightful drive. 


JV'AME AND FAME. 


3 ” 


“ Where are you taking me ? ” he said, with a smile of 
restful gratitude, which clearly implied, I do not care 
where it is, so long as I am taken by you ! ’’ 

“ You are going to a convalescent home, where you will 
be the only patient. If you obey the rules, you may get 
well in a month, and the first rule is that you are not to 
ask questions, or to think about unpleasant things.” 

“ Are you my nurse ? ” 

“ That is the first breach of rules ! They are very strict 
at this home, I can tell you ! ” 

She spoke in a playful mood, but it left him with the 
impression that he was really being taken to a “ home ” of 
some kind, where he was to be nursed until he was well. 
He had no objection to make. He would have gone any- 
where with equal pleasure, if he could be sure that she 
would be there to look after him. His one thought in 
prison, when he lay in the grip of fever, was that he must 
surely die before his sentence had run out. That was his 
hope and belief from day to day ; and only when he heard 
that Lettice had come and made inquiries about him, and 
promised to fetch him as soon as he was released, did any 
real desire for life return to him. Now, in her presence, 
he was so completely happy that he forgot all his former 
sufferings and despair. 

Weak as he was, he would have found words to tell her 
of his gratitude — and of much more than gratitude ; but 
this because of, not in spite of, weakness — if she had not 
carefully checked him whenever he tried to speak. For- 
tunately, it was not at all hard to check him. He was in- 
firm in mind as in body. Apart from the illness, which 
sapped his energies and paralyzed his power of thought, he. 
had never thrown off the cloud of callous and despairing 
indifference which fell upon him after the fatal scene in 
Surrey Street. Add to this that the surrender of his inde- 
pendence to Lettice was in itself a pleasure to him, and 
we need not wonder that her self-imposed task seemed to 
her fairly easy of accomplishment. 

At Bute Lodge they found everything very nice and 
comfortable. Mrs. Jenny and Mrs. Beadon (as Milly was 
to be called), who had come earlier in the morning with a 
cabful of yesterday’s purchases,, had carried out Lettice's 
instructions to the letter. The best room in the house 
looked out upon a delightful garden landscape— two bor- 


312 


NAME AND FAME, 


ders, backed by well-grown box and bay-trees, holly, Irish 
yews, and clambering roses, with a lessening crowd of her- 
baceous plants in front, dwindling down to an edge of 
brilliant annuals on either side ; and between these a long 
and level lawn, broken near the house by a lofty deodara, 
and ending in a bowling-green, and a thickly-planted bank 
of laurels, beyond which lay a far-off vista of drooping 
fruit-trees. The garden was reached through a small con- 
servatory built outside a French window at one end of the 
room, and a low verandah ran along the remainder of the 
garden front. 

Inside, all was as Lettice had planned it. A square 
writing table in front of the window was covered with a 
dozen of the books which had made most noise during the 
past season, with the November magazines, and the 
weekly papers which Alan had been wont to read. Milly 
had cut them all over night, and here they lay, with an 
easy-9hair beside them, ready to tempt the student when 
he felt inclined and able to read. That was not just yet ; 
but Alan saw the pile, and darted at his guardian angel 
another look of gratitude from his lustrous, melancholy 
eyes. 

“ Why, here,” he said, looking round the room and out 
upon the garden, “ a man must get well only too soon ! I 
shall steadily refuse to mend.” 

“ You will not be able to help yourself,” said Lettice. 
“Now you are going to be left alone ” 

“ Not alone ! ” 

“ For half an-hour at the very least. All this floor be- 
longs to you, and you are to have nothing to do with 
stairs. When you want anything you are to ring this bell, 
and Milly, whom you saw when we came in, will attend on 
you. Here, on this sideboard, are wine, and biscuits, and 
jelly, and grapes. Sit down and let me give you a glass of 
wine. We will have some lunch at one, tea at four, and 
dinner at seven — but you are to be eating grapes and 
jelly in between. The doctor will come and see you every 
morning.” 

“What doctor?” 

“ Why, the doctor of the Establishment, to be sure I ’* 

“ Oh, this is an Establishment ^ ” 

“ Yes.” 


M/lfE AND FAME. 


313 


“ It is more rational in its plan than some I have heard 
of, since it takes in your nurse and your nurse’s maid. 
Will this precious doctor dine with us ? ” 

“ This precious ! You are to have great faith in your 
doctor ; but I am sorry to say he will not be able to dine 
with us. He has other occupations, you see ; and for 
company I am afraid you will have to be content with such 
as your nurse may be disposed to give you ! ” 

Before he could say anything else, she had left the room. 
He was alone — alone and happy. 

Straight from prison to paradise. That was what the 
morning’s work meant for him, and he could not think 
with dry eyes of the peri who had brought him there. 

Oh, the bitterness of that dungeon torture, when his 
heart had been branded with shame and seared with hu- 
miliation ; when he had sworn that life had no more hope 
or savor for him, and the coming out from his cell had 
seemed, by anticipation, worse than the going in ! 1 

This was the coming out, and he was already radiant 
with happiness, oblivious of suffering, hopeful of the future. 
It was enough, he would not probe it, he would not peer 
into the dark corners of his prospect ; he would simply 
realize that his soul had been lost, that it had been found 
by Lettice, and that it was hers by right of trover, as well 
as by absolute surrender. 

The midday sun shone in at his window and tempted 
him to the verandah outside. Here he found one of those 
chairs, delightful to invalids and lazy men, which are con- 
structed of a few crossed pieces of wood and a couple of 
yards of sacking, giving nearly all the luxury of a ham- 
mock without its disturbing element of insecurity. And 
by its side, wonderful to relate, there was a box of cigar- 
ettes and some matches. Since they were there, he might 
as well smoke one. His last smoke was seven or eight 
months ago — quite long enough to give a special relish to 
this particular roll of Turkish tobacco. 

As he lay back in his hammock chair, and sent one 
ring chasing another to the roof of the verandah, he heard 
a step on the gravel beneath him. Lettice, with a basket 
in one hand and a pair of scissors in the other, was col- 
lecting flowers and leaves for her vases. Unwilling to 
leave him too much alone, until she saw how he would bear 
his solitude, she had come out into the garden by a door 


3»4 


N’AM£ AND FAME, 


at the other end of the house, and presently, seeing him in 
the verandah, approached with a smile. 

“ Do I look as if I were making myself at home?” he 
said. 

“ Quite.” 

“ As soon as I began to smoke, all kinds of things came 
crowding into my mind.” 

“Not unpleasant things, I hope?” She said this 
quickly, being indeed most afraid lest he should be tempted 
to dwell on the disagreeable past. 

“No, almost all pleasant. And there are things I want 
to say to you — that I must say to you, very soon. Do 
you think I can take for granted all you have done, and 
all you are doing for me ? Let me come down and join 
you ! ” 

“ No ! ” she said, with a great deal of firmness in her 
gesture and tone. “You must not do anything of the 
kind until the doctor has seen you ; and besides, we can 
speak very well here.” 

The verandah was only a few feet above the ground, so 
that Lettice’s head was almost on a level with his own. 

“ There is no difficulty about speaking,” she went on, 
“but I want you to let me have the first word, instead of 
the last. This is something I wanted to say to you, but I 
did not know how to manage it before. It is really very 
important that you should not fatigue or excite yourself by 
talking, and the doctor will tell you so when he comes. 
Now if you think that you have anything at all to thank 
me for, you will promise not to speak to me on any per- 
sonal matters, not even your own intentions for the future, 
for one clear month from to-day ! Don’t say it is impossi- 
ble, because, you see, it is as much as my place (as nurse) 
is worth to listen to you ! If you will promise, I can stay ; 
and if you will not promise, I must go away.” 

“ That is very hard ! ” 

“ But it is very necessary. You promise ? ” 

“ Have I any choice ? I promise.” 

“ Thank you ! ” She said this very earnestly, and looked 
him in the eyes with a smile which was \yorth a faggot of 
promises. 

“ But you don’t expect me to be deaf and dumb all the 
time ? ” said Alan. 


KAxME AND FAME, 


31S 

“ No, of course not ! I have been told that you ought 
to be kept as cheerful as possible, and I mean to do what 
I can to make you so. Do you like to be read to ! ” 

“ Yes, very much.” 

“ Then I will read to you as long as you please, and 
write your letters, and— if there were any game ” 

“ Ah, now, if by good luck you knew chess ? ’ 

“ I do know chess. I olayed my father nearly every 
evening at Angleford.” 

“ What a charming discovery ! And that reminds me 
of something. Is there any reason why I should not write 
to Mr. Larmer? He has some belongings of mine, for 
one thing, which I should like him to send me, including a 
set of chess-men.” 

“ No reason at all. But you ougnt not to write or talk 
of business, if you can help it, until you are quite strong.” 

“ Well, then, I won't. I will ask him to send what I 
want in a cab ; and then, when I am declared capable of 
managing my own affairs, I will go into town and see him. 
But the fact is, that I really feel as well as ever I did in my 
life ! ” 

“ You may feel it, but it is not the case.” 

And later in the day, Alan was obliged to confess that he 
had boasted too soon, for there was a slight return of fever, 
and the doctor whom Lettice had called in was more 
emphatic than she had been as to the necessity for com- 
plete rest of mind and body. 

So for the next week he was treated quite as an invalid, 
to his great disgust. Then he fairly turned the corner, and 
things began to change for the better again. Lettice read 
to him, talked, played chess, found out his tastes in music 
and in art (tastes in some respects a little primitive, but 
singularly fine and true, in spite of their want of training), 
and played his favorite airs for him on the piano — some of 
Mendelssohn’s plaintive Lieder, the quainter and statelier 
measures of Corelli and Scarlatti, snatches of Schumann 
and Grieg, and several older and simpler melodies, for most 
of which he had to ask by humming a few bars which had 
impressed themselves on his memory. 

As the month wore itself out, the success of Lettice’s 
experiment was in a fair way of being justified. She had 
charmed the evil spirit of despair from Alan’s breast, and 
had won him back to manly resistance and courageous 


$16 


NAME AND FAME. 


effort. With returning bodily strength came a greater 
robustness of mind, and a resolution — borrowed, perhaps, 
in the first instance, from his companion — to be stronger 
than his persecutors, and rise superior to his troubles. 

In the conversations which grew out of their daily read- 
ings, Lettice was careful to draw him as much as possible 
into literary discussions and criticisms, and Alan found 
himself dwelling to an appreciative listener on certain of 
his own ideas on poetic and dramatic methods. There is 
but a step from methods to instances ; and when Lettice 
came into his room one morning — she never showed her- 
self before mid-day — she saw with delight on the paper 
before him an unmistakable stream of verses meandering 
down the middle of the sheet. 

He had set to work 1 Then he was saved — saved from 
himself, and from the ghouls that harbor in a desolate and 
outraged mind. 

If, beyond this, you ask me how she had gained her end, 
and done the good thing on which she had set her heart, I 
cannot tell you, any more than I could make plain the 
ways in which nature works to bring all her great and mar- 
velous mysteries to pass. Lettice’s achievement, like her 
resolution, argued both heart and intellect. Alan would 
not have yielded to anyone else, and he yielded to her 
because he loved her with the feelings and the understand- 
ing together. She had mastered his affections and his 
intelligence at the same time : she left him to hunger and 
thirst up to the moment of his abject abasement, and then 
she came unasked, unhoped, from her towering height to 
his lowest deep, and gave him — herself! 

“ Do you remember,” he said to her once, when he had 
got her to talk of her successful story, “ that bit of Brown- 
ing which you quote near the end ? Did you ever think 
that I could be infatuated enough to apply the words to 
myself, and take comfort from them in my trouble ? ” 

She blushed and trembled as he looked at her for an 
answer. 

“ I meant you to do it ! ” 

“ And I knew you meant it ! ” he said, not without a 
dangerous touch of triumph in his voice. “ If I were a 
little bolder than I am, I would carry you to another page 
of the poet whom we love, and ask if you ever remem- 
bered the words of Constance — words that you did not 
quote ” 


J\^AA£E AND FAME, 


317 

Ten times more deeply she blushed at this, knowing 
almost by instinct the lines of which he thought. Had he 
not asked her to read “ In a Balcony ” to him the night 
before, and had she not found it impossible to keep her 
voice from trembling when she read Constance’s passionate 
avowal of her love ? 


I know the thriftier way 
Of giving — haply, ’tis the wiser way ; 

Meaning to give a treasure, I might dole 
Coin after coin out (each, as that were all, 

With a new largess still at each despair), 

And force you keep in sight the deed, preserve 
Exhaustless till the end my part and yours, 

My giving and your taking ; both our joys 
Dying together. Is it the wiser way ? 

I choose the simpler • I give all at once. 

Know what you have to trust to, trade upon ! 

Use it, abuse it — anything, but think 
Hereafter, ‘ Had I known she loved me so. 

And what my means, I might have thriven with it.* 

This is your means. I give you all myself.’* 

And in truth, that was the gift which Lattice offered to 
him — a gift of herself without stint or grudging, a gift com- 
plete, open-handed, to be measured by his acceptance, not 
limited by her reservation. Alan knew it ; knew that 
absolute generosity was the essence of her gift, and that 
this woman, so far above him in courage, and self-command, 
and purity, scorned to close her fingers on a single coin of 
the wealth which she held out to him. And he, like Nor- 
bert, answered reverently : “ I take you and thank God.” 

For just because he knew it, and was penetrated to the 
core by her munificence, he took the draught of love as 
from a sacred chalice, which a meaner nature would have 
grasped as a festal goblet. He might have grasped it thus, 
and the sacramental wine would have been a Circe’s potion, 
and Lettice would have given her gift in vain. But nature 
does not so miscalculate her highest moods. “ Spirits are 
not finely touched but to fine issues.” Lettice’s giving was 
an act of faith, and her faith was justified. 

This was the true source of Alan’s self-respect, and from 
self-respect there came a strength greater and more endur- 
ing than he had ever known before. Redeemed from the 
material baseness of his past when he changed the prison 
cell for Lettice’s ennobling presence, he was now saved 


3*8 


^rA^^E AND FAME, 


from the mental and moral feebleness to which he might 
have sunk by the ordeal through which his soul had passed. 

Lettice felt that her work was accomplished, and she was 
supremely happy. When Clara Graham kept her promise, 
and came to see her friend — though she had not been able 
to bring her husband with her — she was struck by the 
blithe gaiety of Lettice’s looks and words. 

“ There is no need to tell me that you are satisfied ! 
she said, kissing the tender cheeks, and gazing with wistful 
earnestness into the eyes that so frankly and bravely met 
her own. 

Satisfied ? ” Lettice answered, with something like a 
sigh. “ I never dreamed that satisfaction could be so com- 
plete.” 

When Alan came in, and Clara, who had expected to see 
a face lined and marred with sorrow, found that he too had 
caught the radiance of unblemished happiness, she fell that 
Lettice had not spent her strength in vain. And she went 
home and renewed her efforts to make her husband see 
things as she saw them, and to give Alan Walcott his 
countenance in the literary world. 

But that was a task of no slight difficulty. James 
Graham had always believed Walcott guilty of a barbarous 
attack on his wife ; he thought that he had been lightly 
punished, and would not admit that h.e was to be received 
when he came out of prison as though he had never been 
sent there. When Clara told him of Lettice’s audacity he 
was terribly shocked — as indeed were all who heard the 
story — and his resentment against Alan increased. The 
news that they were happy together did not produce the 
good effect upon his temper which Clara thought it might 
have done. 

It was Lettice herself who tackled Mrs. Hartley. She 
wrote her a long and candid letter, very apologetic as re- 
garded her conduct in Italy, but quite the opposite when 
she spoke of what she had done since she came back to 
London. The answer was short, but much to the point. 

“ I thought you would write to me,” Mrs. Hartley said, 
in her note. “ I should hardly have forgiven you if you 
had not. There is some of your letter which I cannot 
understand, and some which I do not quite agree with. But 
come and explain it to me. I am an old woman, and have 
no time to be angry with those I love. Come on Thursday 
afternoon — alone — and we will have a good talk.” 


JVAM£ AND FAME. 


319 


So Lettice went, and made her peace with her old friend, 
and was admitted to her favor again. But Alan was on 
probation still. The last thing which he would have ex- 
pected, or indeed desired, was that he should be received 
and treated by his former acquaintance as though nothing 
had ha.ppened since he was a welcome guest in their houses. 
Especially as he and Lettice had not yet settled the question 
which all their friends were asking : “ How would it end ? 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

MISTRESS AND MAID. 

Poor Milly Harrington had faithfully kept her promise of 
amendment. She was as loyal and serviceable to her 
mistress as any one could be, and evidently did her utmost 
to show her gratitude to Lettice, studying her tastes, and, 
as far possible, anticipating her wishes. But it was plain 
that she was not happy. When not making an effort to 
be cheerful as part of her daily duty, she would sit brood- 
ing over the past and trembling for the future ; and, though 
she tried to conceal her hopeless moods, they had not 
altogether escaped notice. 

Lettice was troubled by Milly’s unhappiness. She had 
taken deep pity on the girl, and wanted, for more reasons 
than one, to save her from the worst consequences of her 
mistakes. To see her, in common parlance, “ going to the 
bad ” — ruined in body and in soul — would have been to 
Lettice, for Sydney’s sake, a burden almost heavier than 
she could bear. For this reason had she brought the girl 
up to London and taken her into her own service again \ 
and from day to day she watched her with kindly interest 
and concern. 

Milly’s good looks could scarcely be said to have come 
back to her, for she was still thin and haggard, with the 
weary look of one to whom life has brought crushing 
sorrow and sickness of heart. But her eyes were pretty, 
and her face, in spite of its worn expression, was interesting 
and attractive. Lettice was hardly surprised, although a 
little startled, to find her talking one day in a somewhat 
confidential manner to a man of highly respectable appear- 


320 « 


^rAM£ AMD FAME, 


ance who was walking across the Common by her side as she 
came home one day from a shopping expedition. It was, 
perhaps, natural that Milly should have acquaintances. 
But Lettice felt a sudden pang of anxiety on the girl’s 
account. She did not know whether she had been seen, 
and whether it was her duty to speak to her maid about 
it ; but her hesitation was ended by Milly herself, who came 
to her room that night, and asked to speak with her. 

• “Well, Milly?” 

“ I saw you to-day. Miss Lettice, when I was out,” said 
Milly, coloring with the effort of speech. 

“Did you? Yes? You were with a friend — I sup- 
pose ? ” 

“ I wanted to tell you about him,” said Milly, nervously. 
“ It’s not a friend of mine, it was a messenger — a mes- 
senger from hiniD 

Lettice sat speechless. 

“ He does not know what has become of me ; and he 
set this man — his clerk — to find out. He wants to send 
me some money — not to see me again. He was afraid 
that I might be — in want.” 

“ And what have you done, Milly ? ” 

“ I said I would not take a penny. And I asked the 
clerk — Mr. Johnson, they call him — not to say that he had 
seen me. I didn’t tell him where I lived.” 

“ Did he say that he would not tell his master ? ” 

“Yes, he promised. I think he will keep his word. He 
seemed — kind — sorry for^me, or something.” 

“You were quite right, Milly. And I would not speak 
to the man again if I were you. He may not be so kind 
and friendly as he seems. I am glad you have told me.” 

“ I couldn’t rest till I had spoken. I was afraid you 
might think harm of me,” said the girl, flushing scarlet 
again, and twisting the corner of her apron. 

“ I will not think harm of you if you always tell me 
about your acquaintances as you have done to day,” said 
Lettice with a smile. “ Don’t be afraid, Milly. And — if 
you will trust to me — you need not be anxious about the 
future, or about the child. I would rather that you did 
not take money from anyone but myself for your needs 
and hers. I have plenty for you both.” 

Milly could not speak for tears. She went away sobbing, 
and Lettice was left to think over this new turn of affairs. 


NAME AND FAME. 


321 


Was Sydney’s conscience troubling him, she wondered, 
after all? 

This was early in November, soon after she came to 
Bute Lodge, and as the time went on, she could not but 
notice that the signs of trouble in Milly’s face increased 
rather than diminished. Lettice had a^ suspicion also that 
she had not managed to get rid of the man with whom she 
had been walking on the Common. She was sure that 
she saw him in the neighborhood more than once, and 
although he never, to her knowledge, spoke to Milly or 
came to the house, she saw that Milly sometimes looked 
unusually agitated and distressed. It was gradually borne 
in upon Lettice’s mind that she had better learn a little 
more of the girl’s story, for her own sake ; and coming 
upon her one day with the signs of trouble plainly written 
on her face, Lettice could not forbear to speak. 

Milly was sitting in a little dressing-room, with some 
needlework in her hand. The baby was sleeping in a 
cradle at her side. She sprang up when Lettice entered ; 
but Lettice made her sit down again, and then sat down 
as well. 

“ What is it, Milly ? Is there anything wrong that I 
don’t know of? Come, don’t give way. I want to help you, 
but how can I do that unless you tell me everything? ” 

“ There is nothing to tell except what you know,” said 
Milly, making an effort to command herself. “But, some- 
times, when I think of it all, I can’t help giving way. I 
did not mean you to see it though, miss.” 

“I have never asked you any questions, Milly, about all 
that happened after you left me, and I do not want to 
know more than you wish to tell me. But don’t you think 
I might do something to place matters on a better footing, 
if I knew your circumstances a little better? ” 

“ Oh, I could never — never tell you all ! ” said Milly 
hiding her face. 

“ Don’t tell me all then. You have called yourself Mrs. 
Beadon so far. You have heard nothing of Mr. Beadon 
lately except what you told me the other day? ” 

“ Only what Mr. Johnson said.” Milly averted her head 
and looked at her child. “The name,” she went on in a 
low voice, “ the name — is not — not Beadon.” 

“ Never mind the name. Perhaps it is as well that you 
should not tell me. When did you see him last ? ” 

21 


322 


NAM£ AND FAME. 


“ In May.” 

“ Never since May ? ” 

“Not once.” Milly hung her head and played with the 
ring on her finger, “ He does not want to sec me again ! ” 
she broke out almost bitterly. 

“ Perhaps it is better for you both that he should not. 
But I will not ask any more,” said Lettice. “ I can under- 
stand that it must be very painful, either to tell me your 
story or to conceal it.” 

“ I hate to conceal it from you ! ” Milly said passionately. 

“ Oh, I wish I had never seen him, and never listened 
to him ! Yet it was my fault — I have nobody to blame 
but myself. I have never forgiven myself for deceiving 
you so ! ” 

“ Ah, if that were the worst, there would not be much to 
grieve about ! ” 

“ I almost think it is the worst. Miss Lettice, may I 
really tell you my story — all, at least, that it would be right 
for you to hear ? ” 

“ If you would like to tell me, do ! Perhaps I can help 
you in some way when I know more.” 

“ There are some things I should like you to under- 
stand,” said Milly, hesitatingly, “ though not because it 
will take away the blame from me — nothing can do that. 
When I first knew Mr. Beadon (I’ll call him so, please), I 
was very giddy and foolish. I longed to see the world, 
and thought that all would go well with me then. I don’t 
know where I picked up the idea, but I had read stories 
about beautiful women who had had wonderful good for- 
tune, through nothing at all but their looks — and people 
had told me I was beautiful — and I was silly enough to 
think that I could do great things, as well as those I had 
read about. I suppose they must have been very clever 
and witty — or, perhaps, they had more luck. I wanted 
to be free and independent ; and I am afraid 1 was ready 
to listen to any one who would flatter my vanity, as — as 
Mr. Beadon did.” 

“ When did he first begin to say these things to you ? 
Was it after you came to London ? ” 

“ Yes — not long after. He was above me in station, 
and very handsome, and proud ; and when he began to 
speak to me, though I was all the time afraid of him, and 
uneasy when I spoke to him, my head was fairly turned. 


NAME AND FAME. 


323 


It shows I was not meant to sliine in the world, or I 
should not have been so uneasy when I spoke to him. 
For some lime he said nothing out of the way — only kind 
words and flattery ; but when he found what I had set my 
heart on, he was always telling me that I was fit to be a 
great lady, and to make a noise in the world. That set me 
all on fire, and I could not rest for thinking of what I 
might do if I could only find my way into society. It 
makes me mad to remember what a fool I was ! 

“ But I was not quite bad. Miss Lettice. When he 
said that he would give me what I wanted — make me a 
lady, and all the rest of it — I shrank from doing what I 
knew to be wrong ; or perhaps I was only afraid. At any 
rate, I would not listen to him. Then he declared that he 
loved me too well to let me go — and he asked me to be his 
wife.” 

“ Oh ! ” said Lettice. It was an involuntary sound, and 
Milly scarcely heard it. 

‘‘ If you knew,” she said, “ what a proud and dignified 
gentleman he was, you would laugh at me thinking that he 
really meant what he said, and believing that he would 
keep his word. But I did believe it, and I agreed at 
length to leave you and go away with him.” 

“ Did you think that I should have anything to say 
against your marriage, Milly ? ” said Lettice, mournfully. 

“ I — -I thought you might.* And Mr. Beadon asked me 
not to mention it.” 

Well ! — and so you trusted him. And then, poor girl, 
your dream soon came to an end ? ” 

“ Not very soon. He kept his word ” 

“What?”^ 

He married me, on the day when I left you. Not in a 
church, but sometv^here — in Fulham, I think. It looked 
like a private house, but he said it was a registrar’s. Oh, 
Miss Campion, are you ill ? ” 

Lettice was holding her side. She had turned white, 
and her heart was throbbing painfully ; but she soon over- 
came the feeling or at least concealed it. 

‘‘ No. Go on — go on ! He married you ! ” 

And we went on the Continent together. I was very 
happy for a time, so long as he seemed happy ; but I 
could never shake off that uncomfortable fear in his 
presence. After a while we came back to London, and 


324 


J\rAMB AND FAME, 


then I had to live alone, which of course I did not like. 
He had taken very nice room"^ for me at Hampstead, 
where he used to come now and then ; and he offered to 
bring some friends to visit me ; but I did not want him to 
do that — I cared for nobody but him ! ” 

“ Poor Milly ! ” said Lettice, softly. 

“ I had been suspicious and uneasy for some time, 
especially when he told me I had better go to Birchmead 
and stay with my grandmother, as he was too busy to come 
and see me, and the rooms at Hampstead were expensive. 
So I went to Birchmead and told them that Mr. Beadon 
was abroad. He was not — he was in London — and I went 
up to see him every now and then ; but I wanted to put 
the best face on everything. It would have been too hard 
to tell my grandmother that I did not think he cared for 
me.” 

She stopped and wiped the tears away from her eyes. 

“ There was worse than that,” she said. “ I began to 
believe that I was not his lawful wife, or he would not 
behave to me as he did. But I daren’t ask, I was so afraid 
of him. And I felt as if I could not leave him, even if I 
was not his wife. That’s where the badness of me came 
out, you see. Miss Lettice. I would have stayed with him 
to the end of my days, wife or no wife, if he had wanted 
me. But he tired of me very soon.” 

“ Did he tell you so, Milly?” 

“ He wrote to me to go back to the Hampstead rooms, 
miss. And I thought that everything was going to be right 
between us. I had something to tell him which I thought 
would please him ; and I hoped — I hoped — even if things 
had not been quite right about the marriage — that he 
would put them straight before my baby came. For the 
child’s sake I thought maybe he woul&n’t give me up. I 
had been dreadfully afraid; but when he sent for me to 
London again, I thought that he loved me still, and that 
we were going to have a happy time together. 

“ So I went to Hampstead ; but he was not there. He 
sent his clerk instead — the man you saw me walking with 

the other day. Arid he told me that Mr. Beadon did 

not wish to see me again, that I had been deceived by the 
mock-marriage, and that he sent me twenty pounds, and I 
might have more by writing to his clerk. Not to him I I 
was never to see him or speak to him again.” 


JSTAME AND FAME. 


32s 


•* And what did you do then, Milly ? 

“ It was very hard for me. I fainted, and when I came 
to myself Mr. Johnson was gone, and the money was 
stuffed into my pocket. Perhaps it was mean of me to 
keep it, but I hadn’t the heart or the spirit to send it back. 
I did not know what I should do without it, for I hadn’t a 
penny of my own. I stayed for a little time at the Hamp- 
stead lodgings, but the landlady got an idea of the true 
state of things and abused me shamefully one day for 
having come into her house ; so I was forced to go. I 
don’t know what I should have done if I hadn’t met Mr. 
Johnson in the street. He was really kind, though he 
doesn’t look as if he would be. He told me of nice cheap 
lodgings, and of some one who would look after me ; and 
he offered me money, but I wouldn’t take it.” 

“ How long did your money last ? ” 

“ It was all gone before baby came. I lived on the 
dresses and presents that Mr. Beadon had given me. I 
heard nothing from Birchmead — I did not know that my 
grandmother was dead, and I used to think sometimes that 
I would go to her ; but I did not dare. I knew that it 
would break her heart to see me as I was.” 

• “ Poor girl ! ” said Lettice again, below her breath. 

“ You must despise me ! ” cried Milly, bursting into 
tears. And you would despise me still more — if I told 
you — every tiling.” 

“No, Milly, it is not for me to despise you. I am very, 
very sorry for you. You have suffered a great deal, for 
what was not all your fault.” 

“ Yes, I have suffered. Miss Lettice — more than I can 
tell you. I had a terrible time when my baby was born. 
I had a fever too, and lost my hair ; and when I recovered 
I had nothing left. I did not know what to do. I thought 
of throwing myself into the river; and I think I should 
have done it when I came to Birchmead and found that 
grandmother was dead, if it had not been for you. You 
found me in the garden that night, just as I had made up 
my mind. There’s a place across the meadows where one 
could easily get into a deep pool under the river-bank, and 
never come out again. That was where I meant to go.” 

“No wonder you have looked so ill and worn,” said 
Lettice, compassionately. “What you must have endured 
before you brought yourself to that 1 Well, it is all over 


326 


J\rAM£ AND FAME. 


now, and you must live for the future. Put the past 
behind you ; forget it — think of it only with sorrow for 
your mistakes, and a determination to use them so that 
your child shall be better guarded than you have been. 
You and your baby have your own lives to live — good and 
useful lives they may be yet. No one would blame you if 
they knew your story, and there is no reason why you 
should be afraid. I will always be your friend, Milly, if 
you will work and strive — it is the only way in which you 
can regain and keep your self-respect.” 

Milly bent her head and kissed Lettice’s hand with an- 
other outburst of tears. But they were tears of gratitude, 
and Lettice did not try to check them now. 

Whilst they were still sitting thus, side by side, the ser- 
vant knocked at the door with a message for her mistress ; 
and her voice broke strangely through the sympathetic 
silence that had been for some time maintained between 
mistress and maid. 

“ Mr. Campion wishes to see you, ma’am.” 

Lettice felt the face which still rested on her hand flush 
with sudden heat ; but when Milly raised it it was as white 
as snow. The baby in its cradle stirred and began to 
wake. 

“ I will come at once, Mrs. Jermy,” said Lettice. 
“ Milly, you had better finish your work here, and let me 
give baby to Mrs. Jermy for a few minutes. She will be 
quite good if I take her downstairs.” 

She did not look at Milly as she spoke ; or, if she did, 
she paid no heed to the mute pain and deprecation in the 
mother’s eyes. Folding the baby in the white shawl that 
had covered it, she took it in her arms, and with slow, 
almost reluctant steps, went down to meet her brother. 

Sydney had come upon what he felt to be a painful 
errand. 

Although the session had begun, and the House of Com- 
mons was already hard at work on a vain attempt to thresh 
out the question of Parliamentary Procedure, he was not 
yet able to devote himself to the urgent affairs of the nation, 
or to seek an opening for that eloquent and fiery speech 
which he had elaborated in the intervals of his autumn 
rest. Before he could set his mind to these things there 
was an equally urgent question of domestic^ procedure 
which it was necessary for him to arrange — a question for 


NAME AND FAME, 


327 


which he had been more or less prepared ever since he 
heard of the flight of Lettice from Florence_, but which 
had assumed the gravest possible importance within the 
last few hours. 

A terrible and incredible thing had come to the know- 
ledge of Sydney Campion. That morning he had looked 
in at his chambers in the Temple, and he had found there, 
amongst other letters, one written about three weeks before 
by Cora Walcott, which had made his blood run cold. 

“ Sir.” — the letter ran — “ you were just and bold on that day when 
you vindicated my character in the Criminal Court, and procured a 
well-deserved punishment for the husband who had outraged me. 
Therefore it is that I write to give you warn'ng, and to tell you that the 
man Walcott, discharged from prison, has 1 en secretly conveyed 
away by one whom you know, after I had been deceived in a most 
shameful manner with a story of his death in prison. I saw her on the 
day before his release — her and his child — waiting to appropriate him, 
and like an idiot I believed her lies, I know not where they hide to- 
gether, but .... I seek until I find. If you know, take my advice, 
and separate them. I go prepared. You proved last time that my 
husband stabbed me. That was very clever on your part ; but you will 
not be able to prove the like thing again, if I should meet my husband 
and your sister together. 

“Cora Walcott.” 

This letter had exasperated Sydney beyond endurance. 
He did not know Lettice’s address ; but, thinking it possi- 
that Mrs. Graham migh have it, he went the same after- 
noon to Edwardes Square. Clara, being at home, was able, 
though in some trepidation, to tell him what he wanted ; 
and thus it was that he found himself at Bute Lodge. 

Lettice came into the room where he had been waiting, 
intrepid, and yet boding something which could not be 
entirely pleasant for him, and might be very much the re- 
verse. She did not want to quarrel with Sydney — she had 
made many efforts in the past to please him, without much 
effect, and had been pained by the increasing interval which 
separated them from each other. But she believed that to 
earn his good word would imply the forsaking of nearly all 
that she valued, and the bowing down to images which she 
could not respect ; and therefore she was content that his 
good word should be a thing beyond her reach. 

She carried the baby on her left arm, and held out her 
right to Sydney. He barely touched her fingers. 


328 


A^AAfE AND FAME. 


“ You are back again,” she said. I hope you had a 
pleasant time, and that your wife is well.” 

“ She is pretty well, thank you. We should have gone 
on to Florence if you had remained there, as we expected. 
You have taken your fate in your hands, Lettice, and cut 
yourself adrift from those who care for you ! ” 

“ Not willingly, Sydney. You might believe that at 
every step I have done what seemed to be my duty.” 

“ How can one believe that ? I only wish I could. 
Read this letter J ” 

She looked at him first, and her eyes flashed at his ex- 
pression of unbelief. She drew herself up as she took 
Cora’s letter in her hands, and read it through with a curl 
of contempt upon her lips. Then she dropped the paper, 
and, clasi)ing Milly’s child to her breast, looked long and 
steadily at her brother. 

“ Why did you’ give me that to read ? ” she said quietly. 

“ There could be only one reason,” he replied ; “ to ask 
you if it is true ? ” 

“ You ask me ? You expect an answer ? ” 

“ I don’t see why you should object to say ‘ yes ' or ^ no * 
.to a charge which, if true, must destroy all brotherly and 
sisterly feeling between us.” 

“ But you are my brother ! Ask me your own questions, 
and I will answer. I will not answer that woman’s ! ” 

She stood in front of him, by far the more proud and 
dignified of the two, and waited for him to begin. 

“ Did you bring that man with you here from the pri- 
son ? ” 

“ I brought Mr. Walcott here.” 

“ And is he here now ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ What more is there to be said ? Wretched woman, it 
is well for you that your parents are beyond the reach of 
this disgrace ! ” 

Whether he meant it or not, he pointed, as he spoke, to 
the infant in her arms. 

Lettice heard a step outside. She went to the door, and 
spoke in a low voice to Mrs. Jermy. Then she came back 
again, and said, 

“ What do you mean, Sydney, by ‘ this disgrace ’ ? ” 

“ Can you say one word to palliate what you have 
already admitted ? Can you deny the facts which speak 


J\rAM£ Al^D £AM£. 


3^9 

for themselves ? Great Heaven ! that such a shameful 
thing should fall upon us ! The name of Campion has 
indeed been dragged through the mire of calumny, but 
never until now has so dark a stain been cast upon it ! ” 
Theatrical in his words, Sydney was even more theatri- 
cal in his action. He stood on the hearthrug, raised his 
hands in horror, and bowed his head in grief and self-pity. 

“ You pointed at the child just now,” said Lettice, stead- 
ily ; “what do you mean by that? ” 

“ Do not ask me what I mean. Is not its very existence 
an indelible disgrace ? ” 

“ Perhaps it is,” she said, kissing the little face which 
was blinking and smiling at her. “ But to whom ? ” 

“ To whom ! ” Sydney cried, with more of real indigna- 
tion and anger in his voice. “ To its miserable mother — 
to its unscrupulous and villainous father ! ” 

Lettice’s keen ears caught the sound of light and hesi- 
tating footsteps, in the passage outside. She opened the 
door quickly, and drew in the unfortunate Milly. 

Sydney started back, and leaned for support upon the 
mantelpiece behind him. His face turned white to the 
very lips. 

“ Milly,” said the remorseless Lettice, “ tell Mr. Cam- 
pion who is the father of this child ! ” 

The poor mother who had been looking at her mistress 
in mute appeal, turned her timid eyes on Sydney’s face, 
then sank upon the floor in an agony of unrestrained 
weeping. 

Except for that sound of passionate weeping, there was 
complete silence in the room for two or three minutes, 
whilst Sydney’s better and worse self strove together for 
the mastery. 

“ Milly ! ” he ejaculated at last, in a hoarse undertone, 
“ I did not know ! Good God, I did not know.” Then, 
to his sister — “ Leave us alone.” 

So Lettice went out, but before she went she saw him 
stride across th*e floor to Milly and bend above her as if to 
raise and perhaps to comfort her. He did not ask to see 
his sister again. In a short ten minutes, she saw him 
walking hastily across the Common to the station, and she 
noticed that his head was bent, and that the spring, the 
confidence of his usual gait and manner had deserted him. 
Milly locked herself with her baby in her room, and 
sobbed until she was quieted by sheer exhaustion. 


330 


J\rAM£ AND FAME. 


But there was on her face next day a look of peace and 
quietude which Lettice had never seen before. She said 
not a word about her interview, and Lettice never kneiv 
what had passed between her brother and the woman 
whom he had wronged. But she thought sometimes, in 
after years, that the extreme of self-abasement in man or 
woman may prove, to natures not radically bad or hope- 
lessly weak, a turning-point from which to date their best 
and most persistent efforts. 


CHAPTER XXXVIL 

‘‘ COURAGE ! ” 

The reawakening of Alan’s mind to old tastes and old 
pursuits, though fitful in the first instance, soon developed 
into a steady appetite for work. Much of his former fresh- 
ness and elasticity returned ; ideas and forms of expression 
recurred to him without trouble. He had seized on a 
dramatic theme suggested in one of the books which Let- 
tice had been reading, and a few days later admitted to 
her that he was at work on a poetic drama. She clapped 
her hands in almost childlike glee at the news, and Alan, 
without much need for pressing, read to her a whole scene 
which had passed from the phase of thought into written 
words. 

Lettice had already occupied her mornings in writing 
the story which she had promised to Mr. MacAlpine. 
Fortunately for her, she now found little difficulty in taking 
up the threads of the romance which she had begun at 
Florence. The change of feeling and circumstance which 
had taken place in her own heart she transferred, with due 
reservation and appropriate coloring, to the characters in 
her story, which thus became as real to her in the London 
fog as it had been under the fleckless Tusdan sky. 

So long as Alan was out of health and listless, it was 
not easy for her to apply herself to this regular morning 
work. But now that he was fast recovering his spirit and 
energy, and was busy with work of his own, she could 
settle down to her writing with a quiet mind. 

Alan had not accepted the hospitality of Lettice without 
concern or protest, and, of course, he had no id.ea of let- 


J\rAMB AND FAME, 


331 


ting her be at the expense of finding food and house-rent 
for him. 

“ Why do you not bring me the weekly bills ? ” he said, 
with masculine bluntness, after he had been at Chiswick 
for nearly three weeks. 

She looked at him with a pained expression, and did not 
answer. 

“ You don’t think that I can live on you in this cool 
way much longer? You are vexed with me! Do not 
be vexed — do not think that I value what you have done 
for me according to a wretched standard of money. If I 
pay everything, instead of you, I shall be far more grate- 
ful, and more truly in your debt.” 

“ But think of my feelings, too ! ” she said. I have had 
my own way so far, because you could not help it. If you 
are going to be unkind and tyrannical as soon as you get 
well, I shall find it in my heart to be almost sorry. Do 
not let money considerations come in ! You promised 
that you would not say anything of the kind before the end 
of the month.” 

I promised something ; but I don’t think I am break- 
ing my promise in spirit. Look here ; I have not been in 
retreat for six months without a certain benefit in the way 
of economy. Here’s a cheque for a hundred pounds. I 
want you to get it cashed, and to use it.” 

“ I have plenty of money,” Lettice said, patting im- 
patiently with her foot on the floor. “ I cannot take this ; 
and until the month is out I will not talk about any kind 
of business whatsoever. There, sir 1 ” 

Alan did not want to annoy her, and let the subject 
drop for the time. 

You shall have your way in all things, except that 
one,” he said; “but I will not mention it again until you 
give me leave.” 

The truth is that Lettice did not know what was to hap- 
pen at the end of the month, or whenever her tenancy of 
Bute Lodge might be concluded. How was she to leave 
Alan, or to turn him out of doors, when the object of her 
receiving him should have been accomplished ? Was 
it already fully accomplished? He had been saved 
from despair, and from the danger of a physical re- 
lapse ; was he now independent of anything she 
could do for him? It gave her a pang to think of that 


33 ^ 


Name and fame. 


possibility, but she would have to think of it and to act 
upon it very soon. She could not put off the evil day 
much beyond the end of November ; before Christinas 
they must come to an understanding — nay, she must come 
to an understanding with her own heart ; for did not 
everything depend on her firmness and resolution ? 

Not everything ! Though she did not know it, Alan 
was thinking for her just what she could not think for her- 
self. He could not fail to see that Lettice had staked her 
reputation to do as she had done for him. As his percep- 
tion grew more keen, he saw with increasing clearness. A 
man just recovering from serious illness will accept sacri- 
fices from his friends with little or no demur, which in full 
health he would not willingly permit. Alan could not 
have saved Lettice from the consequences of her own act, 
even if he had realized its significance from the first — 
which he did not. But now he knew that she was giving 
more as a woman than he, as a man, had ever thought of 
taking from her ; and he also, with a somewhat heavy 
heart, perceived that a change in their relations to one 
another was drawing near. 

Lettice was sitting in her little study one morning, turn- 
ing over in her mind the question which so deeply agitated 
her, and trying to think that she was prepared for the only 
solution which appeared to be possible or acceptable. 
Alan and she were to go their separate ways : that was, 
she told herself, the one thing fixed and unalterable. 
They might meet again as friends, and give each other 
help and sympathy ; but it was their irrevocable doom that 
they should live apart and alone. That which her heart 
had sanctioned hitherto, it would sanction no longer ; the 
cause and the justification were gone, and so were the 
courage and the confidence. 

Lettice had appropriated to her own use as a study a 
little room on the ground floor, opening upon the garden. 
In warm weather it was a particularly charming place, for 
the long windows then always stood open, and pleasant 
scents and sounds from the flower-beds and leafy trees 
stole in to cheer her solitude. In winter, it was a little 
more difficult to keep the rooms warm and cosy ; but Let- 
tice was one of the women who have the knack of making 
any place where they abide look home-like and inviting, 
and in this case her skill had not been spent in vain, even 


JVAMJS AATD FAME. 


333 


upon a room for the furniture of which she was not alto- 
gether responsible. Heavy tapestry curtains excluded the 
draught ; a soft rug lay before the old-fashioned high brass 
fender, and a bright fire burned in the grate. Lettice’s 
writing-table and library chair half filled the room ; but 
there was also a small table heaped high with books and 
papers, a large padded leather easy-chair, and a book-case. 
The walls were distempered in a soft reddish hue, and such 
part of the floor as was not covered with a bordered 
tapestry carpet of divers tints had been stained dark brown. 
One of Lettice’s favorite possessions, a large autotype of 
the Sistine Madonna, hung on the wall fronting her writ- 
ing-table, so that she could see it in the pauses of her 
work. 

It was at the door of this room that Alan knocked one 
stormy December day. The month which Lettice had 
fixed as the period of silence about business affairs had 
passed by ; but Alan was so very far from strong when 
November ended that she had managed, by persuasion 
and insistence, to defer any new and definite arrangement 
for at least another fortnight. But he had gained much 
physical and mental strength during those two weeks, and 
he had felt more and more convinced from day to day that 
between himself and Lettice there must now be a com- 
plete understanding. He knew that she had taken the 
house until the end of December; after that date she 
would be homeless, like himself. What were they both to 
do ? It was the question which he had come to put. 

Lettice received him with a touch of surprise, almost of 
embarrassment in her manner. She had never made him 
free of her study, for she felt it better that each should 
have a separate domain for separate work and a separate 
life. She had no wish to break down more barriers than 
circumstances demanded ; and the fact that she had utterly 
outraged the laws of conventionality in the eyes of the 
world did not absolve her from the delicate reticence 
which she had always maintained in her personal relations 
with Alan. He saw the doubt in her face, and hastened 
to apologize for his intrusion. “ But I could not work 
this morning,” he said, “ and I wanted to sj^eak to you. 
Milly told me you were here, and ” 

“ Oh, I am very glad to see you. Come and sit down,” 
You are not too busy for a little talk ? ” 


334 


J^AM£ AND FAME, 


“ Not at all." 

She wheeled the leather-covered chair a little nearer to 
the fire, and made him sit down on it. He cast his eye 
round the cheery room, noting the books and papers that 
she was using, the evidences of steady work and thought. 
The firelight leaped and glanced on the ruddy walls, and 
the coals crackled in the grate ; a dash of rain against the 
window, a blast of wind in the distance, emphasized the 
contrast between the warmth and light and restfulness 
within the house, the coldness and the storm without. 

Alan held his hands to the blaze, and listened for a mo- 
ment to the wind before he spoke. 

“ One does not feel inclined,” he said, “ to turn out on 
such a day as this.” 

“ Happily, you have no need to turn out,” Lettice an- 
swered, taking his words in their most literal sense. 

“ Not to day, perhaps ; but very soon. Lettice, the time 
has come when we must decide on our next step. I cannot 
stay here any longer — on our present terms, at least. But 
I have not come to say good-bye. Is there any reason 
why I should say good-bye — save for a time ? ” 

He had risen from his chair as he spoke, and was stand- 
ing before her. Lettice shaded her eyes with her hands. 
Ah, if she could only give way to the temptation which she 
felt vaguely aware that he was going to raise ! If she could 
only be weak in spite of her resolution to be strong, if she 
could only take to herself at once the one consolation and 
partnership which would satisfy her soul, how instantly 
would her depression pass away ! How easily with one 
word could she change the whole current and complexion 
of life for the man who was bending over her ! He was 
still only half-redeemed from ruin ; he might fall a prey to 
despair again, if she shrank in the supreme moment from 
the sacrifice demanded of her. 

Alan did not know how her heart was pleading for him. 
Something, indeed, he divined, as he saw her trembling and 
shaken by the strife within. His heart bounded with 
sudden impulse from every quickened vein, and his lips 
drew closer to her hidden face. 

“ Lettice ! ” 

There was infinite force and tenderness in the whispered 
word, and it pierced her to the quick. She dropped her 
hands, and looked up. 


NAME and fame. 


335 


But one responsive word or glance, and he would have 
taken her in his arms. He understood her face, her eyes, 
too well to do it. She gave him no consent ; if he kissed 
her, if he pressed her to his breast, he felt that he should 
dominate her body only, not her soul. And he was not of 
that coarse fibre which could be satisfied so. If Lettice did 
not give herself to him willingly, she must not give herself 
at all. 

“ Lettice ! ” he said again, and there was less passion 
but more entreaty in his tone than before he met that 
warning glance, “ will you not let me speak ? ” 

“ Is there anything for us to say,” she asked, very gently, 
“ except good-bye ? ” 

“ Would you turn me away into the cold from the warmth 
and brightness of your home, Lettice? Don’t be angry 
with me for saying so. I have had very little joy or comfort 
in my life of late, and it is to you that I owe all that I know 
of consolation. You have rescued me from a very hell of 
despair and darkness, and brought me into paradise. Now 
do you bid me go? Lettice, it would be cruel. Tell me to 
stay with you .... and to the last hour of my life I will 
stay.” 

He was standing beside her, with one hand on the 
wooden arm of her circular chair. She put her hand over 
his fingers almost caressingly, and looked up at him again, 
with tears in her sweet eyes. 

Have I not done what I wanted to do ? ” she said. “ I 
found you weak, friendless, ill ; you have got back your 
strength, and you know that you have at least one friend 
who will be faithful to you. My task is done ; you must 
go away now and fight the world — for my sake.” 

“ For your sake ? You care what I do, then : Lettice, 
you care for me ? Tell me that you love me — tell me, at 
last ! ” 

She was silent for a moment, and he felt that the hand 
which rested on his own fluttered as if it would take itself 
away. Was she offended ? Would she withdraw the mute 
caress of that soft pressure ? Breathlessly he waited. If 
she took her hand away, he thought that he should almost 
cease to hope. 

But the hand settled once more into its place. It even 
tightened its pressure upon his fingers as she replied — 

“ I love you with all my heart,” she said ; “ and it is 
just because I love you that I want you to go away.’* 


atame and fame. 


336 

With a quick turn of his wrist he seized the hand that 
had hitherto lain on his, and carried it to his lips. They 
looked into each other's eyes with the long silent look 
which is more expressive even than a kiss. Soul draws 
very near to soul when the eyes of man and woman meet 
as theirs met then. The lips did not meet, but Alan’s face 
was very close to hers. When the pause had lasted so long 
that Lettice’s eyelids drooped, and the spell of the look 
was broken, be spoke again. 

Why should I go away ? Why should the phantom of 
a dead past divide us ? We belong to one another, you and 
I. Think of what life might mean to us, side by side, hand 
in hand, working, striving together, you, Ihe stronger, 
giving me some of your strength, I ready to give you the 
love you need — the love you have craved for — the love 
that you have won ! Lettice, Lettice, neither God nor man 
can divide us now ! ” 

Hush ! you are talking wildly,” she answered, in a 
very gentle tone. “ Listen to me, Alan. There is one 
point in which you are wrong. You speak of a dead past. 
But the past is not dead, it lives for you still in the person 
of — your wife.” 

“ And you think that she should stand in our way? After 
all that she has done ? Can any law, human or divine, bind 
me to her now ? Surely her own acts have set me free. 
Lettice, my darling, do not be blinded by conventional 
views of right and wrong. I know that if we had loved 
each other and she had been a woman of blameless life, I 
should not be justified in asking you to sacrifice for me all 
that the world holds dear ; but think of the life she has led 
— the shame she has brought upon me and upon herself. ] 
Good God ! is anyone in the world narrow-minded enough 1 
and base enough to think that I can still be bound to her ? ” ! 

“No, Alan; but your course is clear. You must set j 
yourself free.” \ 

“ Seek my remedy in the courts ? Have all the miser- 
able story bandied about from lip to lip, be branded as a 
wretched dupe of a wicked woman on whom he had 
already tried to revenge himself? That is what the world 
would say. And your name would be brought forward, 
my dearest ; it would be hopeless to keep it in the back- 
ground now. Your very goodness and sweetness would be 
made the basis of an accusation. ... I could not bear it, 


NAME AND FAME. 


337 

I could not see you pilloried, even if I could bear the shame 
of it myself.” 

He sank on his knees beside her, and let his head sink 
almost to her shoulder. She felt that he trembled, she saw 
that his lips were pale, and that the dew stood on his fore- 
head. His physical strength had not yet returned in full 
measure, and the contest with Lettice was trying it to the 
utmost. 

Lettice had turned pale too, but she spoke even more 
firmly than before. 

Alan,” she said, ‘‘ is this brave } ” 

“ Brave ? no ! ” he answered her. I might be brave 
for myself, but how can I be brave for you ? You will suffer 
more than you have any conception of, when you are held 
up to the scorn — the loathing — of the world. For you 
know she will not keep to the truth — she will spit her 
venom upon you — she will blacken your character in ways 
that you do not dream ■” 

“ I think I have fathomed the depths,” said Lettice, with 
a faint, wan smile. “ I saw her myself when you were in 
prison, and she has written to my brother Sydney. Oh, 
yes,” as he lifted his face and looked at her, “ she stormed, 
she threatened, she has accused . . . what does it 

matter to me what she says, or what the world says, either ? 
Alan, it is too late to care so much for name and fame. I 
crossed the line which marks the boundary between con- 
vention and true liberty many weeks ago. The best thing 
for me now, as well as for you, is to face our accusers gal- 
lantly, and have the matter exposed to the light of day.” 

“ I have brought this upon you ! ” he groaned. 

No, I have brought it on myself. Dear Alan, it is the 
hardest thing in the world to be brave for those we love — 
we are much too apt to fear danger or pain for them. Just 
because it is so hard, I ask you to do this thing. Give me 
courage — don’t sap my confidence with doubts and fears. 
Let us be brave together, and for one another, and then 
we shall win the battle and be at peace.” 

“ It will be so hard for you.” 

Not harder than it has been for you these many years. 
My poor dear, my heart has bled so many times to think 
how you have suffered ! I am proud to have a share in 
your suffering now. I am not ashamed to tell you that I 
love you, for it is my love that is to make you strong and 

23 


JVAME AND FAME. 


338 

brave, so that we may conquer the world together, despise 
its scorn, and meet its sneers with smiles ! We will not run 
away from it, like cowards ! I come of a fighting race on 
my mother’s side, the very suggestion of flight makes my 
blood boil, Alan ! No, we will die fighting, if need be, but 
we will not run away.” 

“ Yes, yes, my brave darling, you are right. We will 
stand or fall together. It was not for myself that I hesit- 
ated.” 

“ I know — I know. So you see, dear, that we must 
part.” 

“ For a time only.” 

“You will see Mr. Farmer to-morrow? ” 

“ I will.” 

I'hey were silent for a while. Fler arm was round his 
neck, and his head was resting against her wearily. It was 
Lettice who first roused herself. 

“ This must not be,” she said, drawing back her arm. 
“ Alan, let us be friends still — and nothing else. Let us 
have nothing to reproach ourselves with by and by.” 

He sighed as he lifted his head from its resting place. 

“ I will go to Larmer to-day,” he said. “ There is noth- 
ing to be gained by waiting. But — have you thought of 
all that that woman may do to us ? Lettice, I tremble 
almost for your life.” 

“ I do not think she would attempt that.” 

“ She threatened you ? ” 

“ With vitriol. She said that she would blind me so that 
I could not see you — scar me so that you would not care 
to look upon my face. Ought I to have told you ? Alan, do 
not look so pale ! It was a mere foolish threat.’ 

“ I am not so sure of that. She is capable of it — or of 
any other fiendish act. If she injured you, Lettice ” 

“ Don’t think of that. You say you will j^o 10 Mr. Lar- 
mer this afternoon.” 

“ Yes. And then I will look out for lodgings. And you 
— what will you do ? Stay here ? ” 

She shook her head. “ I shall go into lodgings too. I 
have plenty of work, and you — you will come to see me 
sometimes.” 

“As often as you will let me. Oh, Lettice, it is a hard 
piece of work that you have given me to do ! ” 

She took his hand in hers and pressed it softly. “ I shall 
be grateful to you for doing it/’ she said, 


J\rAME AND FAME. 


339 


^ There was a long silence. Alan stood by the fire-place, 
his head resting upon his hand. Finally he spoke in a low 
uncertain tone — 

“ There is one point I must mention. I think there may 
be a difficulty in getting the divorce. I believe she claims 
that I condoned her — her faults. I may find insuperable 
obstacles in my way.” 

Lettice drew a quick breath, and rose suddenly to her 
feet. % 

“ We have nothing to do with that just now, Alan. You 
must try.” 

And then they said no more. 

But when the afternoon came and Alan was ready to 
depart — for when once he had made up his mind tfiat he 
must go, he thought it better not to linger — he drew 
Lettice inside her little study again, and looked her full in 
the face. 

“Lettice, before I go, will you kiss me once? ” 

She did not hesitate. She lifted her face, calmly and 
seriously, and kissed him on the mouth. 

But she was not prepared for the grip in which he seized 
her, and the passionate pressure of her lips which he 
returned. “ Lettice, my dearest, my own love,” he said, 
holding her close to him as he spoke, “ suppose I fail ! If 
the law will not set me free, what will you do ? ” 

She was silent for a minute or two, and he saw that her 
face grew pale. 

“ Oh,” she said at last, in a sighing voice, broken at last 
by a despairing sob, “ if man’s law is so hard, Alan, 
surely then we may trust ourselves to God’s ! ” 

‘ Promise me,” he said, “ that you will never give me up 
— that, whatever happens, you will one day be mine ! ” 

“ Whatever happens,” she answered, “ I am yours, Alan, 
in life or death — in time and for eternity.” 

And with this assurance he was fain to be content. 


340 


NAME AND FAME. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

SYDNEY PAYS HIS DEBTS. 

The fight which Sydney Campion had had to wage with 
his creditors was bitter enough up to the time of his mar- 
riage. Then there had been a lull for a few months, during 
which it was confidently said and believed that he was 
about to touch a large sum of money, and that all who had 
put their trust in him would be rewarded. 

Month after month went by, and there was no realiza- 
tion of the prospect. Sydney touched no money but 
what he earned. He might, no doubt, have touched some 
of his wife’s money, even for the payment of his old debts, 
if he had told her the distress that he was in. But it had 
never occurred to him to be thus sincere with Nan. He 
had thought to figure before her as one who was not depen- 
dent on her fortune, who could very comfortably play with 
his hundreds, though not able, like herself, to be generous 
with thousands. He would, in fact, have been ashamed 
to own his rotten financial condition, either to Nan or to 
any of his social or political friends ; and he fancied that 
he was concealing this condition in a very ingenious man- 
ner when he made a liberal outlay in connection with their 
quiet marriage, the honeymoon abroad, and the subsequent 
arrangements of their household in London. 

This was all the more unfortunate because Nan, just of 
age, with her fortune in her own hands, would have given 
him anything without demur or question, if she had for a 
moment suspected that he needed it. His concealment was 
so effectual that it never entered her unsophisticated mind 
that this barrister in good practice, this rising politician, 
who seemed to have his feet on the ladder of success, 
could be crushed and burdened with debt. Sydney, how- 
over, was by no means blind. He knew well enough that 
he could have had the few thousands necessary to clear 
him if he had asked his wife for a cheque ; but he did not 


J\rAMA' AND FAME. 


341 


trust her love sufficiently to believe that she would think 
as well of him from that day forward as she had done be- 
fore, and he was not large-minded enough to conceive 
himself as ever shaking off the sense of obligation which 
her gift in such a form would impose upon him. 

He had therefore drifted, in the matter of his debts, 
from expedient to expedient, in the hope that by good for- 
tune and good management he might avoid the rocks that 
beset his course, and reach smooth water by his own 
exertion. But, as ill luck would have it, he had given a 
bill for six hundred pounds, due on the 23rd of November, 
to a certain Mr. Copley, a man who had been especially 
disgusted by Sydney’s failure to obtain ready money at the 
time of his marriage, and who for this and other reasons 
had worked himself up into a malicious frame of mind. 
But on the 23rd of November, Sydney and his wife had 
run over to Paris for a few days with Sir John and LaJy 
Pynsent, and then Nan had been so seriously indisposed 
that Sydney could not leave her without seeming unkind- 
ness ; so that they did not reach London again until the 
26th. This delay opened a chapter of incidents which 
ended as Sydney had not foreseen. 

He had not forgotten the date of the bill, and knew that 
it was important to provide for it ; but he did not anticipate 
that the last day of grace would have expired before he 
could communicate with the man who held his signature. 

Early on the morning of the 27th, he set out for Mr. 
Copley’s office ; and it so happened that at the same mo- 
ment Mr. Copley set out also for Sydney’s private house. 

“ Master in ? ” said Mr. Copley, who was a man of few 
words. 

“ No, sir.” 

Lady in ? ” 

“ My mistress does not receive any one so early.” 

“ Take that up — answer important — bearer waiting.” 

The footman condescended so far as this, and gave Mr. 
Copley’s letter into the charge of Mrs. Campion’s maid. 

In less than ten minutes Nan sent for the unwelcome 
visitor. She was very pale when she received him, and 
she looked so young and fair that Mr. Copley was a little 
taken aback. He knew that Sydney had married an 
heiress, and it was from her, therefore, that he had deter- 
mined, if possible, to get the money \ but he half repented 


342 


NAME AND FAME, 


his resolve when he saw Mrs. Campion’s face. Too 
young to know anything about business,” he said to him- 
self. 

But Nan was more business-like than he expected. She 
had for some time insisted on knowing a good deal about 
her own money matters, and she was well aware of her 
powers. 

“ Where is this paper — this acceptance you mention in 
your letter ? ” she began. 

Mr. Copley silently took it from his notebook, and laid 
it on the table. 

“ Why did you bring this here? or, rather, why did you 
send it in to me ? Mr. Campion is not difficult to find 
when he is wanted. This is, of course, his business.” 
There was a little indignation in her tone. 

“ Beg your pardon, madam. You will observe the date 
of the acceptance. I presented it yesterday.” 

“ At the bank ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

Nan bit her lip. She knew what this signified, and she 
would have given a thousand pounds to undo what had 
happened. 

She went to a drawer in her writing-table and quietly 
took out a cheque-book. “ We were delayed in returning 
to England by my illness,” she said, as indifferently as she 
could. “ Mr. Campion has gone out for the purpose of 
seeing to this.” Her heart smote her for making a state- 
ment which she could not vouch for, but as Mr. Copley 
only bowed and looked uninterested, she went on rapidly, 
“ As you have the paper with you, it will save time — it 
will be satisfactory, I suppose — if I give you a cheque for 
it?” 

“ Amply satisfactory.” 

She sat down before the table and took the pen in her 
hand, hesitating a moment as to whether she ought to ask 
for further details. Her fears and her curiosity were alike 
aroused, and Mr. Copley divined the question, which she 
hardly knew how to put into words. He produced a sheet 
of notepaper, containing a few memoranda, and passed it 
across the table. 

“ That was to refresh my memory if necessary ; but hap- 
pily it isn’t. Mr. Campion may like to see it, however. 
He wiW find it is all correct. 1 knew I was right in asking 
to see you, ma’am,” 


NAME AND FAME. 


343 


Nan did not look at the memoranda. She was satished 
that she had the details before her for her own or Sydney’s 
consideration if necessary. She signed her cheque and 
took possession of the dishonored bill ; and then Mr. 
Copley departed. 

When he was gone, she caught up the sheet of paper and 
hastily glanced at it. 

“ 1880 — studs, pin, moneyadvanced ^^50. 1881 — ring, 

money advanced ^100; bracelet, necklace, pendant, mo- 
ney advanced ;^i5o ” and so on. Further down the 

page. Nan’s eye was caught by the words : “ Diamond and 
sapphire ring.” 

Ah ! ” she said, catching her breath as if she were in 
pain, and laying the paper down on the table, that was 
mine ! ” 

The ring was on her finger as she spoke. It had been 
her engagement ring. She looked at it for a minute or 
two, then slowly took it off and put it into the drawer. 

Next, with an absent look upon her face, she took up a 
small taper, and lighted it ; and, holding Mr. Copley’s 
paper by one corner, she raised it to the flame and con- 
verted it into ashes. One line escaped. A fragment of 
the paper was scorched but not consumed, and as she 
took it up to make her work more thorough, the words 
and a date caught her attention once again. 

“ Bracelet, necklace, pendant, bought after we knew 
each other,” she murmured with a curious smile. “Those 
were not for me. I wonder ” 

But she did not go on. It was the first time that a 
shadow from Sydney’s past had crossed her life ; and she 
dared not investigate it too closely. She put the bill and 
her cheque-book out of sight, and sat down to think over 
the present position of affairs. 

Sydney came home just before lunch-time, and, hearing 
that she was in her own little sitting-room (she would not 
have it called a boudoir), went up to her. He looked 
vexed and anxious, as Nan was quick to notice, but he 
came up to her side and kissed her affectionately. 

“ Better, Nan ? ” She had not been very well when he 
left her : indeed, the delicacy of her health had lately been 
more marked, and had several times given him cause for 
uneasiness. 

** Yes, thank you. But you don't look well, Sydney.” 


344 


J\rAME AND FAME. 


She hoped that he would tell her what was wrong. To 
her disappointment, he smiled, and answered lightly. S 

“ I’m all right. Nan. I have a good deal to do just now, 
and am rather tired — that is all.” 

“ Tired — and anxious ? ” she said, looking at him with 
more keenness than he had thought her soft eyes capable < 
of expressing. 

“ Anxious ! no, I have not much to be anxious about, 
have I ? ” ; 

He spoke with a laugh ; but, to her fancy, there was ,, 
something half-alarmed and half-defiant in the pose of his ; 
lifted head, the glance of his handsome bright eyes. Her 
heart sank a little : it seemed to her that it would have 
been nobler in her husband to tell her the whole truth, and J 

it had never occurred to her before to think of him as * 

ignoble in any way. 

“ I suppose you do not want to tell me for fear of ' 

troubling me,” she said, with a tremor in her voice ; “ but ^ 

I think I know what you are anxious about, Sydney.” 

He gave a little start as he turned towards her. " 

“ Some man has been here whilst you were out, and he j 

sent up this letter with a request that it should be opened, j 

Look ! ” she said, giving him the bill, “ you can tear it up ' 

now. I was sure you had gone out to see about it, but I ^ 

thought it better that I should settle it at once. I hope ” ■ 

— with a little girlish nervousness — “ you don’t mind ? ” ^ 

He had sat down on a chair when she showed him Mr. 
Copley’s letter, with the look of a man determined to bear , 
a blow, but he sprang up again at the sight of his dishon- ' 
ored acceptance. 

“ And you have paid it. Nan ? ” he cried. 

“Yes, I paid it. Oh, Sydney, it was a little thing to ■ 
do ! If only you had told me months ago ! ” j 

Her eyes brimmed over with tears at last. She had ; 
been smarting under a sense of terrible humiliation ever i 
since Mr. Copley’s visit, but hitherto she had not wept. 
Now, when her husband took her in his arms and looked 
into her eyes, the pain at her heart was somewhat assuaged, 
although the tears fell swiftly down her pale cheeks. 

“ Nan, I never dreamed that I should find your kindness 
so bitter to me,” Sydney said. 

He was profoundly moved by her gentleness and by her 
generosity alike. JBnt inasmuch as it requires more gene- 


^rAM£ AMD Fame. 


345 


rosity of nature to accept a gift nobly than to make it, he 
felt himself shamed in her eyes, and his wife was in her 
turn pained by the consciousness of his shame. 

“ Why should you be afraid to trust me ? ” she said. 

All that concerns you concerns me as well : and I am 
only setting myself free from trouble and anxiety if I do 
anything for you. Don’t you understand? And as far as 
my money is concerned, you know very well that if it had 
not been for John and those tiresome lawyers, you should 
have had it all and spent it, if you chose, without the 
slightest reference to me. What grieves me, dearest, is 
that you should have been suffering without taking me into 
your confidence.” 

‘‘ I ought to have done so,” said Sydney, rather reluct- 
antly, “ but I felt as if I could not tell you all these paltry, 
sordid details. You might have thought ” 

Then he paused, and the color rose darkly in his face. 

“ I should have thought nothing but what was honorable 
to you,” said Nan, throwing back her graceful head with a 
gesture of natural pride and indignation. 

“ And now you think the worse of me? ” 

“ No, no ! ” she cried, stealing one arm round his neck, 

“ I think nothing bad of you — nothing ! Only you will 
trust me, now, Sydney ? You will not hide things from me 
again ? ” 

“ No, my darling, nothing that you ought to know,” he 
said. There was a touch of new but restrained emotion* 
in his voice. It struck him for almost the first time how 
much of his life he had hidden from her frank and innocent 
eyes. 

Presently, when he had kissed her tears away, she begged 
him to tell her what he still actually owed, and, after some 
little demur, he consented. The amount of the debt, which 
lay heavily on his conscience, was comparatively a trivial 
thing to her. But when he had told her all, she looked at 
him with eyes which, although very loving, were full of 
wonder and dismay. 

“ Poor Sydney ! ” she said caressingly. “ My poor boy ! 
As if you could give your mind properly to anything with 
this heavy burden on it ! To-morrow we can get the 
money, and pay off all these people. Then you will be able 
to work without any disturbance.” 

“ Thanks to you. Nan,” said her husband, with bowed 
head. She could not understand why he did not look more 


Name and fame. 


346 

relieved. She never suspected that his mind was burdened 
with another debt, that money could not pay. 

She had not asked him for any explanation of the items 
in the paper that she had read. The momentary wonder 
that had flitted across her mind passed as quickly as it 
came. The gifts that were not for her had been intended 
perhaps for his sister Lettice, perhaps for the wedding pre- 
sent of a friend. She did not like to ask. But a slightly 
uncomfortable sensation remained in her mind, and she 
never again wore the ring for which, as it now turned out, 
she herself had had to pay. 

Sydney’s position was certainly a painful one just then. 
But he was at any rate relieved of the burden of his debts, 
and he hoped, with some compunction of heart, that no 
other secret of his life would ever come to his wife’s ears. 
It was about this time that he received the letter from Cora 
Walcott and had the interview with Lettice, of which men- 
tion has been made ; and Nan fancied that it was anxiety 
about his sister that caused him to show signs of moodiness 
and depression. He had told her nothing more of Lettice’s 
doings than he was obliged to tell, but other friends were 
not so reticent, and Lady Pynsent had enlightened Nan’s 
mind very speedily with respect to the upshot of “ the 
Walcott affair.” Nan made some reference to it shortly 
afterwards in conversation with her husband, and was 
strucTc by the look of pain which crossed his face as he 
replied, 

“ Don’t talk about it. Nan, my dear.” 

“ He must be much fonder of his sister than I thought,” 
Nan said to herself. She made one more effort to speak. 

“ Could I do nothing, Sydney ? Suppose I went to her, 
and told her how grieved you were ” 

“ You, Nan ! For heaven’s sake, don’t let me hear of 
your crossing the threshold of that house ! ” cried Sydney, 
with vehemence, which Nan very naturally misunderstood. 

It was, on the whole, a relief to her to find that he did 
not want her to take any active steps in any direction. 
She was not very strong, and was glad to be left a good 
deal at peace. Sydney was out for a great part of the day, 
and Nan took life easily. Lady Pynsent came to sit with 
her sometimes, or drove in the Park with her, and other 
friends sought her out : she had tender hopes for the 
future which filled her mind with sweet content, and she 


NAME AND FAME. 


347 


would have been happy but for that slight jar between Syd- 
ney and herself. That consciousness of a want of trust 
which never ceased to give her pain. Sydney himself was 
the most attentive of husbands when he was at home : he 
brought her flowers and fruit, he read aloud to her, he 
hung over her as she lay on the sofa, and surrounded her 
with a hundred little marks of his affection— such as she 
would have thought delicious while her confidence in him 
was still unshaken. She still found pleasure in them ; but 
her eyes were keener than they had been, and she knew 
that beneath all the manifestations of his real and strong 
attachment to her there ran a vein of apology and mis- 
giving — a state of things inexpressibly unsatisfactory to a 
woman who knows how to love and how to trust. 

Sydney, only half-conscious that something was wrong, 
had no idea how to mend matters, and was, therefore, in a 
fair way to make them worse. Frankness would have 
appeared brutal to him, and he did not see how subtly 
poisonous was the effect of his habits of concealment upon 
his wife’s mind. Gifted with the instinct of discernment, 
which in sensitive women is almost like a sort of second- 
sight, she knew, without knowing how she knew, that he 
had trouble which he did not confide to her, secrets which 
his tongue would never tell. He could deceive her as to 
their existence so long as the period of illusion lasted ; but 
as soon as her eyes were opened her sight became very 
keen indeed. And he, believing himself always successful 
in throwing dust in her eyes, fancied that her wistful look, 
her occasional unresponsiveness to his caresses, proceeded 
from physical causes only, and would with them also pass 
away. 

Thus December left them, and the dark foggy days of 
January flew apace. It was close upon February before 
Nan recovered from a severe cold which had assailed her 
about Christmas time, and left her very weak. For a week 
or two she was confined entirely to her room, and when 
she came downstairs she was forced for a time to keep to 
the warm atmosphere of one sitting-room. But one day, 
when February was close at hand, and the fogs had begun 
to clear away, she felt so much stronger that she resolved 
to make a new departure and show Sydney that she was 
really better. Instead of going into the drawing-room, 
therefore, she came down another flight of stairs, and re- 


}^AME AND Dame. 


34S 

solved to establish herself in Sydney’s study, ready to 
greet him on his return. 

But Sydney was late, and she was rather weaker than 
she knew. She had lier tea, and ordered lights to be 
brought in, and the curtains drawn, but still he did not 
come. Then she found that the lights hurt her eyes, and 
she had them extinguished — all but one small silver lamp 
which stood on a centre-table, and gave a very subdued 
light. Her maid came and put a soft fur rug over her, 
and at her orders moved a screen of carved woodwork, 
brought from an Arab building in Algeria, between her and 
the fire before she left the room. Thus comfortably in- 
stalled, the warmth and the dimness of the light speedily 
made Nan sleepy. She forgot to listen for the sound of 
her husband’s latchkey ; she fell fast asleep, and must 
have remained so for the greater part of an hour. 

The fire went down, and its flickering flame no longer 
illuminated the room. The soft light’ of the lamp did not 
extend very far, and the screen, which was tall and dark, 
threw the sofa on which Nan lay into deep shadow. The 
rug completely covered the lower part of her dress, and as 
the sofa stood between the wall and the fire-place on that 
side of the room furthest removed from the door, any one 
entering might easily believe that the room was empty. 
Indeed, unless Nan stirred in her sleep, there was nothing 
at all to show that she was lying on the couch. 

Thus, when Sydney entered his study about a quarter to 
seven, with a companion whom he had found waiting for 
him on the door-step, it would have been impossible for 
him to conjecture the presence of his wife. He did not 
light another lamp. The first words of his visitor had 
startled him into forgetting that the room was dark — per- 
haps, as the interview went on, he was glad of the obscurity 
into which his face was thrown. And the sounds of the 
low-toned conversation did not startle Nan from her slum- 
ber all at once. She had heard several sentences before 
she realized where she was and what she was listening to, 
and then very natural feelings kept her silent and motion- 
less. 

“ No, I’ve not come for money,” were the first words 
she heard. “ Quite a different errand, Mr. Campion. It 
is some weeks since I left you now, and I left you because 
I had a competency bequeathed to me by an uncle.” 


J\rAM£ AND FAME. 


349 


Pleased to hear it, I am sure, Johnson,” was Sydney’s 
response. “ As you mentioned the name of another per- 
son, I thought that you had perhaps had a letter from 
her ” 

“ I have seen her, certainly, several times of late. And 
I am the bearer of a message from her. She has always 
regretted that she took a certain sum of money from you 
when she first found out how you had deceived her ; and 
she wishes you to understand that she wants nothing more 
from you. The fact is, sir, I have long been very sorry 
for her misfortunes, and now that I am independent, I have 
asked her to marry me and go with me to America.” 

There was a little silence. “ I am quite willing to pro- 
vide for the child,” said Sydney, “ and ” 

“ No,” said the man, almost sternly ; “ hear me out 
first, Mr. Campion. She owes her misery to you, and, no 
doubt, you have always thought that money could make 
atonement. But that’s not my view, nor hers. We would 
rather not give you the satisfaction of making what you 
call restitution. Milly’s child — your child, too — will be 
mine now ; I shall adopt it for my own when I marry her. 
You will have nothing to do with either of them. And I 
have brought you back the twenty pounds which you gave 
her when you cruelly deserted her because you wanted to 
marry a rich woman. In that parcel you will find a locket 
and one or two other things that you gave her. I have 
told her, and Miss Campion, who has been the best of 
friends to us both, has told her that she must henceforth 
put the memory of you behind her, and live for those whom 
she loves best.” 

“ Certainly ; it is better that she should,” said Sydney. 

“ That is all I have to say,” Johnson remarked, “ except 
that I shall do my best to help her to forget the past. But 
if QYQV you can forget your own cruelty and black treachery 
and villainy towards her ” 

“ That will do. I will not listen to insult from you or 
any man.” 

“ You should rather be grateful to me for not exposing 
you to the world,” said Johnson, drily, as he moved to- 
wards the door. “ If it knew all that I know, what would 
your career be worth, Mr. Campion? As it is, no one 
knows the truth but ourselves and your sister, and all I 
want to remind you of is, that if we forget it, and if you 


350 


J\rAAI£ AND FAME. 


forget it, I believe there is a God somewhere or other who 
never forgets.” 

“ I am much obliged to you for the reminder,” said Syd- 
ney, scornfully. But he could not get back the usual 
clearness of his voice. 

Johnson went out without another word, and a minute 
later the front door was heard to close after him. Sydney 
stood perfectly still until that sound was heard. Then he 
moved slowly towards the table, where an envelope and a 
sealed packet were lying side by side. He looked at them 
for a minute or two, and flung himself into an arm-chair 
beside the table with an involuntary groan of pain. He 
was drawing the packet towards him, when a movement 
behind the screen caused him to spring desperately to his 
feet. 

It was Nan, who had risen from the sofa and stood 
before him, her face white as the gown she wore, her eyes 
wide with a new despair, her fingers clutching at the collar 
of her dress as if the swelling throat craved the relief of 
freedom from all bands. Sydney’s heart contracted with a 
sharp throb of pain, anger, fear — he scarcely knew which 
was uppermost. It flashed across his mind that he had 
lost everything in life which he cared for most — that Nan 
would despise him, that she would denounce him as a 
sorry traitor to his friends, that the story — a sufficiently 
black one, as he knew — would be published to the world. 
Disgrace and failure had ahvays been the things that he 
had chiefly feared, and they lay straight before him now. 

“ I heard,” Nan said, with white lips and choking utter- 
ance. “ I was asleep when you came, but I think I heard 
it all. Is it true ? There was some one — some one — that 
you left — for me ? — some one who ought to have been your 
wife ? ” 

“ I swear I never loved anyone but you,” he broke out, ; 
roughly and abruptly, able neither to repel nor to plead , 
guilty to the charge she made, but miserably conscious I 
that his one false step might cost him all that he held most I 
dear. To Nan, the very vagueness and — as she deemed 
it — the irrelevance of his answer constituted an acknow- 
ledgment of guilt. 

“ Sydney,” she murmured, catching at the table for sup- 
port, and speaking so brokenly that he had difficulty in 
distinguishing the words, “Sydney — I cannot pay this 
debt I” 


J\rAM£ AND FAME. 351 

And then she fell at his feet in a swoon, which at first he 
mistook for death. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

so SHALL YE ALSO REAP.” 

For some time Nan’s life hung in the balance. It seemed 
as though a straw either way would suffice to turn the 
scales. Dead silence reigned in the house in Thurloe 
Square : the street outside was ankle-deep in straw : 
doctors and nurses took possession of Nan’s pretty rooms, 
where all her graceful devices and gentle handicrafts were 
set aside, and their places filled with a grim array of 
medicaments. The servants, who loved their mistress, 
went about with melancholy faces and muffled voices ; and 
the master of the house, hitherto so confident and self- 
reliant, presented to the world a stony front of silent deso- 
lation, for which nobody would have given Sydney Campion 
credit. 

“ Over-exertion or mental shock must have brought it 
on,” said the doctor, when questioned by Lady Pynsent as 
to the cause of Mrs. Campion’s illness. 

‘‘ She can't have had a mental shock,” said Lady Pynsent, 
decidedly. “ She must have over-excited herself. Do you 
know how she did it, Sydney ? ” 

‘‘ She fainted at my feet almost as soon as I saw her,” 
said Sydney. “ I don’t know what she had been doing 
all the afternoon.” 

Nobody else seemed to know, either. The maid bore 
witness that her mistress had insisted on going downstairs, 
and it was generally supposed that this expedition had 
been too much for her strength. Only Sydney knew better, 
and he would not confide his knowledge to Lady Pynsent, 
although he spoke with more freedom to the doctor. 

“ Yes, she had bad news which distressed her. She 
fainted upon hearing it.” 

“ That did the mischief. She was not in a condition to 
bear excitement,” said the doctor, rather sharply ; but he 
was sorry for his words, when he noted the distressed 
look on Sydney’s face. He was the more sorry for him 


352 


J\rAM£ AND FAME. 


when it was discovered that he could not be admitted to 
the sick-room, for his appearance sent Nan’s pulse up to 
fever-height at once, although she did not openly confess 
her agitation. The only thing that Sydney could do was 
to retire, baffled and disconsolate, to his study, where he 
passed the night in a state of indescribable anxiety and 
excitement. 

When the fever abated. Nan fell into such prostration of 
strength that it was difficult to believe she would ever rise 
from her bed again. Weaker than a baby, she could move 
neither hand nor foot : she had to be fed like an infant, at 
intervals of a few minutes, lest the flame of life, which had 
sunk so low, should suddenly go out altogether. It was at 
this point of her illness that she fainted when Sydney once 
persuaded the doctor to let him enter her room, and the 
nurses had great difficulty in bringing her back to conscious- 
ness. After which, there was no more talk of visits from 
her husband, and Sydney had to resign himself to obtain- 
ing news of her from the doctor and the nurses, who, he 
fancied, looked at him askance, as blaming him in their 
hearts for his wife’s illness. 

“ I can’t make Nan out,” said Lady Pynsent to him one 
day. “ She is so depressed — she cries if one looks at her 
almost — and yet the very thing that I expected her to be 
unhappy about does not affect her in the least.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” said Sydney. 

“ Why, her disappointment about her baby, of course. 
I said something about it, and she just whispered, ‘ I’m 
very glad.’ I suppose it is simply that she feels so weak, 
otherwise I should have thought it unnatural in Nan, who 
was always so fond of children.” 

Sydney made no answer. He was beginning to find this 
state of things intolerable. After all, he asked himself, 
what had he done that his wife should be almost killed by 
the shock of finding out that he had behaved — as other 
men behaved? But that sort of reasoning would not do. 
His behavior to Milly had been, as he knew, singularly 
heartless ; and he had happened to marry a girl whose 
greatest charm to him had been her tenderness of heart, 
her innocent candor, and that purity of mind which comes 
of hatred — not ignorance — of sin. A worldlier woman 
would not have been so shocked ; but he had never 
desired less crystalline transparency of mind — less exqui- 


NAME AND FAME. 


353 


site whiteness of soul, for Nan. No ; that was tlie worst 
of it : the very qualities that he admired and respected in 
her bore witness against him now. 

He remembered the last hours of his father’s life — how 
they had been embittered by his selfish anger, for which 
he had never been able to make amends. Was his wife 
also to die without giving him a word of forgiveness, or 
hearing him ask her pardon ? If she died, he knew that he 
would have slain her as surely as if he had struck her to 
the ground with his strong right hand. For almost the 
first time in his life Sydney found himself utterly unnerved 
by his anxiety. His love for Nan was the truest and 
strongest emotion that he had ever felt. And that his love 
for her should be sullied in her eyes by comparison with 
the transient influence which Milly had exercised over him 
was an intolerable outrage on his best and holiest affections 
and on hers. “ What must she think of me ? ” he said to 
himself ; and he was fain to confess that she could not 
think much worse of him than he deserved. It was a 
bitter harvest that he was reaping from seed that he him- 
self had sown. 

He was almost incapable of work during those terrible 
days when he did not know whether Nan would live or die. 
He got through as much as was absolutely imperative ; 
but he dreaded being away from the house, lest that 

change,” of which the nurses spoke, should come during 
his absence ; and he managed to stay at home for many 
hours of the day. 

But at last the corner was turned : a little return of 
strength was reported, and by and by the doctor assured 
him that, although his patient still required very great care, 
the immediate danger was past, and there was at least a 
fair hope of her ultimate recovery. But he might not see 
her — yet. 

So much was gained ; but Sydney’s spirits did not rise at 
once. He was conscious of some relief from the agony of 
suspense, but black care and anxiety sat behind him still. 
He was freer to come and go, however, than he had been 
for some time, and the first use he made of his liberty was 
to go to the very person whom he had once vowed never 
to see again — his sister Lettice. 

She had written to him since his interview with her at 
Bute Lodge. She had told him of Alan's departure, and — 


354 


AND FAME, 


to some extent — of its cause : she had given him the 
address of the lodgings to which she was now going (for a 
continued residence at Bute Lodge was beyond her means), 
and she sent him her sisterly love — and that was all. She 
had not condescended to any justification of her own con- 
duct, nor had she alluded to the accusations that he had 
made, nor to his own discomfiture. But there had been 
enough quiet warmth in the letter to make him conscious 
that he might count on her forgiveness and affection if he 
desired it. And he did desire it. In the long hours of 
those sleepless nights and weary days in which he had 
waited for better news of Nan, it was astonishing to find 
how clearly the years of his boyhood had come back to 
him — those quiet, peaceful years in which he had known 
nothing of the darker sides of life, when the serene atmos- 
phere of the rectory and the village had been dear to his 
heart, and Lettice had been his cherished companion and 
trusty comrade in work or play. It was like going back 
into another world — a purer and a truer world than the one 
in which he lived now. 

And in these hours of retrospect, he came to clearer and 
truer conclusions respecting Lettice’s character and course 
of action than he had been able to do before he was him- 
self smitten by the hand of Fate. Lettice was interpreted 
to him by Nan. There were women in the world, it seemed, 
who had consciences, and pure hearts, and generous 
emotions : it was not for him to deny it now. And he 
had been very hard on Lettice in days gone by. He 
turned to her now with a stirring of affection which he had 
not known for years. 

But when he entered Lettice’s room, and she came to 
meet him, gravely, and with a certain inquiry in her look, 
he suddenly felt that he had no reason to give for his 
appearance there. 

“ Sydney ! ” she had exclaimed in surprise. Then, after 
the first long glance, and with a quick change of tone : 
“ Sydney, are you ill ? ” 

For he was haggard and worn, as she had never seen 
him, with dark lines under his eyes, and an air of prostra- 
tion and fatigue. 

“ No, I’m very well. It’s Nan — my wife,” he said, 
avoiding her alarmed gaze. 

I am sorry — very sorry. Is she ” 


J^TAME AND FAME. 


355 


“She has been on the brink of death. There is some 
hope now. I don’t know why I came here unless it was to 
tell you so,” said Sydney, with an odd abruptness which 
seemed to be assumed in order to mask some unusually 
strong feeling. “ I suppose you know that the man John- 
son came to see me ” 

“ Yes : they have gone,” said Lettice, quickly. “ Tliey 
were married yesterday, and sailed this morning.” 

“ Ah ! Well, she was in the room when he — made his 
communication to me. I did not know it — Johnson never 
knew it at all. She had been asleep — but she woke and 
heard what he said. She fainted — and she has been ill 
ever since.” He added a few words concerning the 
technicalities of his wife’s case. 

“ Oh, Sydney ! — my poor Sydney ! I am so sorry,” said 
Lettice, her eyes full of tears. For she saw, by his changed 
manner, something of what his trouble had been, and she 
instantly forgot all causes of complaint against him. He 
was sitting sideways on a chair, with his head on his hand ; 
and when she put her arms round his neck and kissed him, 
he did not repulse her — indeed, he kissed her in return, 
and seemed comforted by her caress. 

“I can’t even see her,” he went on. “She faints if I 
go into the room. How long do you think it will last, 
Lettice ? Will she ever get over it, do you think ? ” 

“ If she loves you, I think she will, Sydney. But you 
must give her time. No doubt it was a great shock to 
her,” said Lettice. 

He looked at her assentingly, and then stared out of the 
window as if absorbed in thought. The result of his reflec- 
tions seemed to be summed up in a short sentence which, 
certainly, Lettice had never expected to hear from Sydney’s 
lips : — 

“ I can’t think how I came to be such a damned fool. 
I beg your pardon, Lettice j but it’s true.” 

“ Can I be of any use to you — or to her ? ” 

“ Thank you, I don’t think so — ^just yet. I don’t know — ” 
heavily — “ whether she will want you some day to tell her 
all you know.” 

“ Oh, no, Sydney ! ” 

“ You must do just what you think best about it. I 
shall put no barriers in the way. Perhaps she had better 
know everything now.” 


J\rAM£ AND FAME, 


356 

Then he roused himself a little and looked at her 
kindly. 

“ How are you getting on ? ” he said. Writing as 
usual ? ” 

“ Yes, I am busy, and doing very well.” 

“ You look thin and fagged.” 

“ Oh, Sydney, if you could but see yourself ! ” 

He smiled at this, and then rose to go. 

“ But you will stay and have tea with me ? Do, Sydney — 
if only,” and Lettice’s voice grew low and deep, “ if only in 
token that there is peace between us.” 

So he stayed ; and, although they spoke no more of the 
matters that were dearest to their hearts, Lettice’s bitter- 
ness of feeling towards her brother disappeared, and Sydney 
felt vaguely comforted in his trouble by her sympathy. 

She did not tell him of the strange marriage-scene which 
she had witnessed the day before — when Milly, almost 
hysterical from over-wrought feeling, had vowed to be a 
true and faithful wife to the man who had pitied and suc- 
cored her in the time of her sorest need : of Johnson’s 
stolid demeanor, covering a totally unexpected fund of 
good-feeling and romance ; or of his extraordinary desire, 
which Lettice had seen carried out, that the baby should 
be present at its mother’s wedding, and should receive — 
poor little mite — a fatherly kiss from him as soon as he 
had kissed the forlorn and trembling bride. For Milly, 
although she professed to like and respect Michael Johnson, 
shrank somewhat from the prospect of life in another 
country, and was nervous and excitable to a degree which 
rather alarmed her mistress. Lettice confessed on reflection, 
however, that Johnson knew exactly how to manage poor 
little Milly ; and that he had called smiles to her face in the 
very midst of a last flood of tears ; and that she had no 
fear for the girl’s ultimate happiness. Johnson had behaved 
in a very straightforward, manly and considerate way ; and 
in new surroundings, in a new country, with a kind husband 
and good prospects, Milly was likely to lead a very happy 
and comfortable life. Lettice was glad to think so ; and 
was mere sorry to see the baby go than to part from Milly. 
Indeed, she had offered to adopt it ; but Johnson was so 
indignant, and Milly so tearful, at the idea, that she had 
been forced to relinquish her desire. All this, however, 
she withheld from Sydney ; as also her expedition to the 


NAME AND FAME, 


357 


station to see the little party start for Liverpool, and Milly's 
grief at parting with the forbearing mistress whom she had 
once deceived, and who had been, after all, her truest 
friend. 

Nan began, very slowly, but surely, to amend ; and 
Sydney, going back to his usual pursuits, seemed busier 
than ever. 

But, in spite of himself, he was haunted night and day 
by the fear of what would happen next; of what Nan 
meant to do when she grew strong. Would she ever for- 
give him ? And if she did not forgive him, what would 
she do ? Tell the whole story to Sir John, and insist on 
returning to her brother’s house? That would be an 
extreme thing, and Sir John — who was a man of the world 
— would probably pooh pooh her virtuous indignation ; 
but Nan had a way of carrying out her resolves whether 
Sir John pooh-poohed them or not. And supposing that 
Nan separated herself from him, Sydney could not but see 
that a very serious imputation would be thrown on his 
character, even if the true story were not known in all its 
details. That mock marriage — which he had not at first 
supposed that Milly had taken seriously — had a very ugly 
sound. And he had made too many enemies for the thing 
to be allowed to drop if once it came to the light. 

His career was simply at the mercy of two women — the 
Johnsons were not, he thought, likely to break silence — 
and if either of them should prove to be indiscreet or 
vindictive, he was a ruined man. He had injured and 
insulted his sister : he had shocked and horrified his wife. 
What Nan thought of him he could not tell. He had always 
believed that women were too small-minded to forget an 
injury, to forgive an insult, or to keep silence regarding their 
husbands’ transgressions. If Nan once enlisted Sir John’s 
sympathies on her side, he knew that, although he might 
ultimately recover from the blow inflicted by his brother- 
in-law’s offense and anger, his chance of success in life 
would be diminished. And for what a cause? He 
writhed as he thought of the passing, contemptuous fancy, 
for the indulgence of which he might have to sacrifice so 
much and had already sacrificed part of what was dearest in 
life to him. Yes, he told himself, he was at Nan’s mercy, 
and he had not hitherto found women very ready to hold 


358 


NAME AND FAME. 


their hands when weapons had been put into them, and all 
the instincts of outraged vanity made them strike. 

Sydney Campion prided himself on a wide experience 
of men and women, and a large acquaintance with human 
nature. But he did not yet know Nan. 

The story which had been so suddenly unfolded to her had 
struck her to the earth with the force of a blow, for more 
than one reason, but chiefly because she had trusted Sydney 
so completely. She was not so ignorant of the ways of men 
as to believe that their lives were always free from stain ; 
indeed she knew more than most girls of the weakness and 
wickedness of mankind, partly because she was well ac- 
quainted with many Vanebury working-people, who were her 
tenants, partly because Lady Pynsent was a woman of the 
world and did not choose that Nan should go about with her 
eyes closed, and partly because she read widely and had 
never been restricted in the choice of books. She was not 
a mere ignorant child, shrinking from knowledge as if it 
were contamination, and blindly believing in the goodness 
and innocence of all men. But this theoretical acquaint- 
ance with the w'orld had not saved her from the error into 
which women are apt to fall — the error of setting up her 
lover on a pedestal and believing that he was not as other 
men. She was punished for her mistake, she told herself 
bitterly, by finding that he was even worse, not better, 
than other men, whose weakenesses she had contemned. 

For there had been a strain of meanness and cruelty 
in Sydney’s behavior to the girl whom he had ruined which 
cut his wife to the heart. She had been taught, and she 
had tried — with some misgiving — to believe that she ought 
to be prepared to condone a certain amount of levity, of 
“wildness,” even, in her husband’s past ; but here she 
saw deliberate treachery, cold-blooded selfishness, which 
startled her from her dream of happiness. Nan was a 
little too logical for her own peace of mind. She could 
not look at an action as an isolated fact in a man’s life : it 
was an outcome of character. What Sydney had done 
showed Sydney as he was. And, oh, what a fall was there ! 
how different from the ideal that she had hoped to see 
realized in him ! 

It never once occurred to Nan to take either Sir John 
or Lady Pynsent into her confidence. Sydney was quite 


KAME AND FAME. 


359 


mistaken in thinking that she would fly to them for consola- 
tion. She would have shrunk sensitively from telling them 
any story to his discredit. Besides, she shrewdly suspected 
that they would not share her disappointment, her sense 
of disillusion ; Sir John had more than once laughed in an 
oddly amused way when she dropped a word in praise of 
Sydney’s high-mindedness and generous zeal for others. 
“ Campion knows which side his bread’s buttered,” he had 
once made her angry by saying. She had not the slightest 
inclination to talk to them of Sydney’s past life and 
character. 

Besides, she knew well enough that she had no actual 
cause of complaint in the eyes of the world. Her husband 
was not bound to tell her all that happpened to him before 
he met her ; and he had severed all connection with that 
unhappy young woman before he asked her, Anna Pynsent, 
to be his wife. Nan’s grievance was one of those intangi- 
ble grievances which bring the lines into so many women’s 
faces and the pathos into their eyes — the grievance of having 
set up an idol and seen it fall. The Sydney Campion who 
had deceived and wronged a trusting girl was not the man 
that she had known and loved. That was all. It was 
nothing that could be told to the outer world, nothing that 
in itself constituted a reason for her leaving him and 
making him a mark for arrows of scandal and curiosity ; 
but it simply killed outright the love that she had hitherto 
borne him, so that her heart lay cold and heavy in her 
bosom as a stone. 

So frozen and hard it seemed to her, that she could not 
bring herself to acknowledge that certain words spoken to 
her husband by the stranger had had any effect on her at 
all. In the old days, as she said to herself, they would 
have hurt her terribly. “ Vou cruelly deserted her because 
you wanted to 7narry a rich womanl' She, Nan, was the 
rich woman for whom Sydney Campion had deserted 
another. It was cruel to have made her the cause of 
Sydney’s treachery — the instrument of his fall. She had 
never wished to wrong anyone, nor that anyone should be 
wronged for her sake. She would not, she thought, have 
married Sydney if she had known this story earlier. Why 
had he married her ? — ah, there came in the sting of the 
sentence which she had overheard : “ You wanted to marry 
a rich woman.” Yes, she was rich. Sydney had not even 


360 


JVAME AND FAME. 


paid her the very i)oor compliment of deserting another 
woman because he loved her best — he had loved her wealth 
and committed a base deed to gain it, that was all. 

She was unjust to Sydney in this ; but it was almost 
impossible that she should not be unjust. The remem- 
brance of his burden of debt came back to her, of the bill 
that he could not meet, of the list of his liabilities which 
he had been so loath to give her, and she told herself that 
he had desired nothing but her wealth and the position 
that she could give him. To attain his own ends he had 
made a stepping-stone of her. He was welcome to do so. 
She would make it easy for him to use her money, so that 
he need never know the humiliation of applying to her for 
it. Now that she understood what he wanted, she would 
never again make the mistake of supposing that he cared 
for her. But it was hard on her — hard to think that she 
had given the love of her youth to a man who valued her 
only for her gold ; hard to know that the dream of happi- 
ness was over, and that the brightness of her life was gone. 

It was no wonder that Nan’s recovery was slow, when 
she lay, day after day, night after night, the slow tears 
creeping down her cheeks, thinking such thoughts as these. 
The blow seemed to have broken her heart and her will to 
live. It would have been a relief to her to be told that she 
must die. 

Her weakness was probably responsible for part of the 
depth and darkness of her despair. She was a puzzle to 
her sister-in-law, who had been used to find in Nan a never- 
failing spring of brightness and gentle mirth. Lady Pyn- 
sent began to see signs of something more than a physical 
ailment. She said one day, more seriously than usual, 

“ I hope. Nan, you have not quarreled with your hus- 
band.” 

“ Oh no, no,” said Nan, starting and flushing guilty ; 
“ I never quarrel with Sydney.” 

“ I fancied there was something amiss. Take my advice, 
Nan, and don’t stand on your dignity with your husband. 
A man is ready enough to console himself with somebody 
else if his wife isn’t nice to him. I would make it up if I 
were you, if there has been anything wrong.” 

Nan kept silence. 

“ He is very anxious about you. Don’t you think you 
are well enough to see him to-day ? ” For Sydney had not 


J\rAM£ AND FAME, 361 

entered Nan’s room since that unlucky time when she 
fainted at his appearance. 

“ Oh no, no — not to-day,” said Nan. And then, col- 
lecting herself, she added, “ At least — not just yet — a little 
later in the afternoon, I mean.” 

“ I’ll tell him to look in at four,” said Lady Pynsent. 

So at four Sydney was admitted, and it would have been 
hard to say whether husband or wife felt the more embar- 
rassment. Sydney tried hard to behave as though nothing 
were amiss between them. He kissed her and asked after 
her well-being ; but he did so with an inward tremor and 
a great uncertainty as to the reception that he should meet 
with. But she allowed him to kiss her ; she even kissed 
him in return and smiled a very little, more than once, 
while he was talking to her ; and he, feeling his heart grow 
lighter while she smiled, fancied that the shadow of sadness 
in her eyes, the lifelessness of her voice and hand, came 
simply from bodily weakness and from no deeper cause. 

After this first visit, he saw her each day for longer inter- 
vals, and realized very quickly that she had no intention 
of shunning him or punishing him before the world, as he 
had feared that she would do. She was so quiet, so gentle 
to him, that, with all a man’s obtuseness where women are 
concerned, he congratulated himself on being let off so 
easily, and thought that the matter was to be buried in 
oblivion. He even wondered a little at Nan’s savoir-faire^ 
and felt a vague sense of disappointment mingling with his 
relief. Was he to hear no more about it, although she had 
been struck down and brought almost to death’s door by 
the discovery of his wretched story ? 

It seemed to be so, indeed. For some time he was kept 
in continual suspense, expecting her to speak to him on the 
subject ; but he waited in vain. Then, with great reluct- 
ance, he himself made some slight approach, some slight 
reference to it; a reference so slight that if, as he some- 
times fancied, her illness had destroyed her memory of the 
conversation which she had overheard in the study, he need 
not betray himself. But there was no trace of lack of 
memory in Nan’s face, when he brought out the words 
which he hoped would lead to some fuller understanding 
between them. She turned scarlet and then white as snow. 
Turning her face aside, she said, in a low but very distinct 
voice. 


362 


JVAM£: AlSTD PAME. 


I want to hear no more about it, Sydney.’^ 

“ But, Nan ” . 

“ Please say no more,” she interrupted. And something 
in her tone made him keep silence. He looked at her for 
a minute or two, but she would not look at him, and so he 
got up and left her, with a sense of mingled injury and 
defeat. 

No, she had not forgotten : she was not oblivious ; and 
he doubted whether she had forgiven him as he thought. 
The prohibition to speak on the subject chafed him, although 
he had previously said to himself that it was next to im- 
possible for him to mention it to her. And he was puzzled, 
for he had not followed the workings of Nan’s mind in the 
least, and the words concerning his marriage with her and 
his reasons for it had slipped past him unheeded, while his 
thoughts were fixed upon other things. 


CHAPTER XL. 

WHO WITH REPENTANCE IS NOT SATISFIED — P 

Before the summer came, Mrs. Sydney Campion was well 
enough to drive out in an open carriage, and entertain 
visitors ; but it was painfully apparent to her friends that 
her health liad received a shock from which it had not by 
any means recovered. She grew better up to a certain 
point, and there she seemed to stay. She had lost all 
interest in life. Day after day, when Sydney came home, 
he would find her sitting or lying on a sofa, white and still, 
with book or work dropped idly in her lap, her dark eyes 
full of an unspoken sorrow, her mouth drooping in mourn- 
ful curves, her thin cheek laid against a slender hand, where 
the veins looked strangely blue through the delicate white- 
ness of the flesh. But she never complained. When her 
husband brought her flowers and presents, as he still liked 
to do, she took them gently and thanked him ; but he 
noticed that she laid them aside and seldom looked at them 
again. The spirit seemed to have gone out of her. And 
in his own heart Sydney raged and fretted — for why, he 
said to himself, should she not be like other women ? — 
why, if she had a grudge against him, should «5he not tell 


AND FAME. 


3^3 

him so ? She might reproach him as bitterly as she pleased ; 
the storm would spend itself in time and break in sun- 
shine ; but this terrible silence was like a nightmare about 
them both ! He wished that he had the courage to break 
through it, but he was experiencing the truth of the saying 
that conscience makes cowards of us all, and he dared not 
break the silence that she had imposed. 

One day, when he had brought her some flowers, she put 
them away from her with a slight unusual sign of im- 
patience. 

“ Don’t bring me any more,” she said. 

Her husband looked at her intently. “ You don’t care 
for them } ” 

“ No.” 

“ I thought,” he said, a little mortification struggling with 
natural disappointment in his breast, “ that I had heard 
you say you liked them — or, at any rate, that you liked me 
to bring them ” 

That was long ago,” she answered softly, but coldly. 
She lay with her eyes closed, her face very pale and weary. 

“One would think,” he went on, spurred by puzzled 
anger to put a long unspoken thought into bare words, 
“ that you did not care for me now — that you did not love 
me any longer ? ” 

She opened her eyes and looked at him steadily. There 
was something almost like pity in her face. 

“ I am afraid it is true, Sydney. I am very sorry.” 

He stood staring at her a little longer, as if he could not 
believe his ears. The red blood slowly mounted to his fore- 
head. She returned his gaze with the same look of almost 
wistful pity, in which there was an aloofness, a coldness, 
that showed him as nothing else had ever done the extent 
of her estrangement from himself. Somehow he felt as 
though she had struck him on the lips. He walked away 
from her without another word, and shut himself into his 
study, where he sat for some minutes at his writing-table, 
seeing nothing, thinking of nothing, dumbly conscious that 
he was, on the whole, more wretched than he had ever been 
in the course of a fairly prosperous and successful life. 

He loved Nan, and Nan did not love him. Well, there 
was an end of his domestic happiness. Fortunately, there 
was work to be done still, success to be achieved, prizes to 
win in the world of men. He was not going to sit down 


Name and fame. 


364 

and despair because he had lost a woman’s love. And so, 
with set lips and frowning brow he once more set to work, 
and this time with redoubled vigor ; but he knew all the 
while that he was* a very miserable man. 

Perhaps if he had seen Nan crying over the flowers that 
she had just rejected, he might have hoped that there was 
still a chance of recovering the place in her heart which he 
had lost. 

But after this short conversation life went on in the old 
ways. Sydney appeared to be more than ever engrossed in 
his work. Nan grew paler and stiller every day. Lady 
Pynsent became anxious and distressed. 

Sydney, what are you doing? what are you thinking 
about ? ” she said to him one day, when she managed to 
catch him for five minutes alone. “ Don’t you see how ill 
Nan is ? ” 

“ She looks ill ; but she always says there is nothing the 
matter with her.” 

“ That is a very bad sign. I hope you have made her 
consult a good doctor ? There is Burrows — I should take 
her to him.” 

Burrows ! Why, he is a specialist ! ” 

“ Nan’s mother died of decline. Burrows attended 
her.” 

Sydney went away with a new fear implanted in his 
heart. 

Dr. Burrows was sent for, and saw his patient ; but he 
did not seem able to form any definite opinion concerning 
her. He said a few words to Sydney, however, which gave 
him food for a good deal of reflection during the next day 
or two. 

At the end of that time, he came to Nan’s sitting-room 
with a look of quiet purpose on his face. May I speak 
to you for a minute ? ” he began formally — he had got into 
the way of speaking very formally and ceremoniously to 
her now. “ Can you listen to me ? ” 

Certainly. Won’t you sit down ? ” 

But he preferred to remain standing at an angle where 
she could not see his face without turning her head. 

“ I have been talking to Dr. Burrows about you. He 
tells me, I am sorry to say, that you are still very weak ; 
but he thinks that there is nothing wrong but weakness, 
though that is bad enough in itself. But he wishes me 


^rA^/£ AND FAME. 


3(>5 

also to say— -you will remember that it is he who speaks, 
not I — that if you could manage to rouse yourself, Nan, if 
you would made an effort to get stronger, he thinks you 
might do it, if you chose.” 

‘‘ Like Mrs. Dombey,” said Nan, with a faint, cheerless 
smile. 

“ He is afraid,” Sydney went on, with the air of one who 
repeats a lesson, that you are drifting into a state of 
hopeless invalidism, which you might still avoid. Once in 
that state you would not die. Nan, as you might like to 
do : you would live for years in helpless, useless, suffering. 
Nan, my dear, it is very hard for me to say this to you ” — 
his voice quivering — “ but I promised Burrows, for your 
own sake, that I would. Such a life,, Nan, would be torture 
to you ; and you have it still within your power — you can 
prevent it if you chose.” 

“ It seems to me very cruel to say so,” Nan answered, 
quietly. “ What can I do that I have not done ? I have 
taken all the doctors’ remedies and done exactly as they 
bade me. I am very tired of being ill and weak, I assure 
you. It is not my fault that I should like to die.” 

She began to cry a little as she spoke. Her mouth and 
chin quivered : the tears ran slowly over her white cheeks. 
Sydney drew a step nearer. 

“ No, it isn’t your fault,” he said, hoarsely, “ it is mine. 
I believe I am killing you by inches. Do you want to 
make me feel myself a murderer? Could you not — even 
for my poor sake — try to get stronger. Nan, try to take an 
interest in something — something healthy and reasonable? 
That is what Dr. Burrows says you need ; and I can’t do 
this thing for you ; I, whom you don’t love any longer,” 
he said, with a sudden fury of passion which stopped her 
tears at once, “ but who love you with all my heart, as I 
never loved in all my life before — I swear it before God ! ” 

He stopped short : he had not meant to speak of his love 
for her, only to urge her to make that effort over her lan- 
guor and her indifference which the great physician said she 
must make before her health could be restored. Nan lay 
looking at him, the tears drying on her pale cheeks, her 
lips parted, her eyes unusually bright ; but she did not 
speak. 

“ If there was anything I could do to please you,” her 
husband went on in a quieter tone, “ I would do it. Would 


366 


JSTAMB AND FAME, 


you care, for instance, to live abroad ? Burrows recom- 
mends a bracing air. If you would go with me to Norway 
or Switzerland — at once ; and then pass the winter at 
Davos, or any place you liked ; perhaps you would care 
for that? Is there nothing you would like to do ? You 
used to say you wanted to see India ” 

“ But your work ! ” she broke in suddenly. “ You 
could not go : it is useless to talk of an impossibility.” 

“ If it would make you better or happier, I would go.” 

“ But the House ? ” 

“ Nothing easier than to accept the Chiltern Hundreds,” 
said Sydney. 

“ And your profession ? ” said Nan, raising herself on 
one arm and looking keenly at him. 

She saw that he winced at the question, but he scarcely 
paused before he replied. 

“I have thought it well over. I could go on practising 

when I came back to England ; and in the meantime 

I suppose you would have to take me abroad. Nan : I 
could not well take you,” he said with a grim sort of jocu- 
larity, which she could not help seeing was painful to him. 

If it did you good, as Burrows thinks it would, I should 
be quite prepared Jo give up everything else.” 

“Give up everything else,” Nan murmured. “For 
me?” 

He drew a long breath. “ Well, yes. The fact is I have 
lost some of my old interest in my work, compared with 
other things. I have come to this. Nan — I would let my 
career go to the winds, if by doing so I could give you 
back strength and happiness. Tell me what I can do ; 
that is all. I have caused you a great deal of misery, I 
know : if there is any way in which I can atone ” 

He did not go on, and for a few moments Nan could not 
speak. There was color enough in her cheeks now, and 
light in her eyes, but she turned away from him, and would 
not let him see her face. 

“ I want to think over what you have said. Please don’t 
think me ungracious or unkind, Sydney. I want to do 
what is best. We can talk about it another lime, can we 
not ? ” 

“ Any time you like.” 

And then he left her, and she lay still. 

Had she been wrong all the wliile ? Had she of her own 
free will allowed herself to drift into this state of languor, 


J\rAM£ and fame. 


367 


and weakness, and indifference to everything ? What did 
these doctors know — what did Sydney himself know — of 
the great wave of disgust and shame and scorn that had 
passed over her soul and submerged all that was good and 
fair ? They could not understand : she said to herself 
passionately that no man could understand the recoil of a 
woman’s heart against sensual passion and impurity. In 
her eyes Sydney had fallen as much as the woman whom 
he had betrayed, although she knew that the world would 
not say so ; and in his degradation she felt herself included. 
She was dragged down to his level — she was dragged 
through the mire : that was the thought that scorched her 
from time to time like a darting flame of fire. For Nan 
was very proud, although she looked so gentle, and she had 
never before come into contact with anything that could 
stain her whiteness of soul. 

She had told Sydney that she loved him no longer, and 
in the deadness of emotion which had followed on the first 
acuteness of her grief for her lost idol, and the physical 
exhaustion caused by her late illness, she had thought she 
spoke the truth. But, after all, what was this yearning 
over him, in spite of all his errors, but love ? what this con- 
tinual thought of him, this aching sense of loss, even this 
intense desire that he should suffer for his sin, but an 
awakening within her of the deep, blind love that, as a 
woman has said, sometimes 

Stirreth deep below ” 

the ordinary love of common life, with a 

“ Hidden beating slow, 

And the blind yearning, and the long-drawn breath 
Of the love that conquers death ” ? 

For the first time she was conscious of the existence of 
love that was beyond the region of spoken words, or 
caresses, or the presence of the beloved : love that inter- 
twined itself with the fibres of her whole being, so that if 
it were smitten her very life was smitten too. This was 
the explanation of her weariness, her weakness, her distaste 
for everything : the best part of herself was gone when her 


368 


NAM£: AND FAME. 


love seemed to be destroyed. The invisible cords of love 
which bind a mother to her child are explicable on natural 
grounds ; but not less strong, not less natural, though less 
common, are those which hold a nature like Nan’s to the 
soul of the man she loves. That Sydney was unworthy of 
such a love, need not be said ; but it is the office of the 
higher nature to seek out the unworthy and “ to make the 
low nature better by its throes.” 

Nan lay still and looked her love in the face, and was 
startled to find that it was by no means dead, but stronger 
than it had been before. “ And he is my husband,” she 
said to herself ; “ I am bound to be true to him. I am 
ashamed to have faltered. What does it matter if he has 
erred ? I may be bitterly sorry, but I will not love him 
one whit the less. I could never leave him now.” 

But a thought followed which was a pain to her. If she 
loved him in spite of error, what of her own sense of right 
and wrong ? Was she not in danger of paltering with it in 
order to excuse him? would she not in time be tempted to 
say that he had not erred, that he had done only as other 
men do ? — and so cloud the fair outlines of truth which had 
hitherto been mapped out with ethereal clearness for her 
by that conscience which she had always regarded, vaguely 
but earnestly, as in some sort the voice of God ? Would she 
ever say that she herself had been an ignorant little fool in 
her judgment of men and men’s temptations, and laugh at 
herself for her narrowness and the limitation of her view? 
Would she come to renounce her high ideal, and content 
herself with what was merely expedient and comfortable 
and “ like other people” ? In that day, it seemed to Nan 
that she will be selling her own soul. 

No, the way out of the present difficulty was not easy. 
She could tell Sydney that she loved him, but not that she 
thought him anything but wrong — wrong from beginning 
to end in the conduct of his past life. And would he be 
content with a love that condemned him ? How easy it 
would be for her to love and forgive him if only he would 
give her one little sign by which to know that he himself 
was conscious of the blackness of that past ! Repentance 
would show at least that there was no twist in his con- 
science, no flaw in his ethical constitution ; it would set 
him right with the universe, if not with himself. For the 
moment there was nothing Nan so passionately desired as 


NAME AND FAME, 


369 


to hear him own himself in the wrong — not for any personal 
satisfaction so much as for his own sake ; also that she 
might then put him upon a higher pedestal than ever, and 
worship him as a woman is always able to worship the 
man who has sinned and repented, rather than the man 
who has never fallen from his high estate ; to rejoice over 
him as angels rejoice over the penitent more than over the 
just that need no repentance. 


Sydney was a good deal startled when his wife said to 
him a few days later, in rather a timid way : 

“ Your sister has never been here. May I ask her to 
come and see me ? ” 

“ Certainly, if you wish it.” He had not come to ap- 
prove of Lettice’s course of action, but he did not wish his 
disapproval to be patent to the world. 

I do wish it very much.” 

Sydney glanced at her quickly, but she did not look back 
at him. She only said : 

“ I have her address. I will ask her to come to-morrow 
afternoon.” 

“Very well.” 

So Nan wrote her note, and Lettice came. 

As it happened, the two had never met. Lettice’s pre- 
occupation with her own affairs, Sydney’s first resentment, 
now wearing off, and Nan’s subsequent illness, had com- 
bined to prevent their forming any acquaintance. But the 
two women had no sooner clasped hands, and looked into 
each other’s eyes, than they loved one another, and the 
sense of mental kinship made itself plain between them. 

They sat down together on the couch in Nan’s private 
sitting-room and fell into a little aimless talk, which was 
succeeded by a short, significant silence. Then Nan put 
out her hand and look Lettice’s in her own. 

“ Yoti know ! ” she said, in a whisper. 

“ I know — what ? ” 

“ You know all that is wrong between Sydney and myself. 
You know what made me ill.” 

“ Yes.” 

“ And you know too — that I love him — very dearly.” 
The words were broken by a sob. 

“ Yes, dear — as he loves you.” 

24 


370 


NAME AND FAME. 


You think so — really ? ” 

“ I am quite sure of it. How could you doubt that ? 

“ I did doubt it for a time. I heard the man say that he 
married me because I was — rich.” 

“ And you believed it ? ” 

I believed anything — everything. And the rest,” said 
Nan, with a rising color in her face, “ the rest was true.” 

“ Dear,” said Lettice, gently, “ there is only one thing 
to be said now — that he would be very glad to undo the 
past. He is very sorry.” 

“ You think he is ? ” 

“ Can you look at him and not see the marks of his sor- 
row and his pain upon his face ? He has suffered a great 
deal j and it would be better for him now to forget the 
past, and to feel that you forgave him.” 

Nan brushed away some falling tears, but did not speak 
at once. 

“ Lettice,” she said at last, in a broken whisper, “ I 
believe I have been very hard and cold all these long 
months. I thought I did not care — but I do, I do. Only 
— I wish I could forget — that poor girl— and the little 
child ” 

She burst into sudden weeping, so vehement that Lettice 
put both her arms round the slight, shaken figure, and tried 
to calm her by caresses and gentle words. 

Is there nothing that I could do ? nothing Sydney 
could do — to make amends ? ” 

“ Nothing,” said Lettice gently, but with decision. 
“ They are happy now, and prosperous ; good has come 
out of the evil, and it is better to forget the evil itself. 
Don’t be afraid j I hear from them, and about them, con- 
stantly, and if ever they were in need of help, our hands 
would be the ones stretched out to help them. The good 
we cannot do to them we can do to others for their 
sakes.” 

And Nan was comforted. 


Sydney came home early that evening; anxious, dis- 
quieted, somewhat out of heart. He found that Lettice 
had gone, and that Nan was in her sitting-room. He gen- 
erally went up to her when he came in, and this time he 
did not fail ; though his lips paled a little as he went up- 


AND FAME. 


371 


stairs, for the thought forced itself upon him that Lettice 
might have made things worse, not better, between himself 
and his wife. 

The daylight was fading as he entered the room. Nan 
was lying down, but she was not asleep, for she turned her 
head towards him as he entered. He noticed the move- 
ment. Of late she had always averted her face when he 
came near her. He wished that he could see her more 
plainly, but she was wrapped in shadow, and the room was 
almost dark. 

He asked after her health as usual, and whether Lettice 
had been and gone. Then silence fell between them, but 
he felt that Nan was looking at him intently, and he did 
not dare to turn away. 

“Sydney,” she said at last. “Will you come here? 
Close to me. I want to say something ” 

“ Yes, Nan ? ” 

He bent down over her, with something like a new hope 
in his heart. What was she going to say to him ? 

“ Sydney — will you take me to Switzerland ? ” 

“ Certainly.” Was that all ? “ When shall we go? ” 

“ When can you leave London ? ” 

“ To-morrow. Any time.” 

“ You really would give up all your engagements, all 
your prospects, for me ? ” 

“ Willingly, Nan.” 

“ I begin to believe,” she said, softly, “ that you do care 
for me — a little.” 

“ Nan ! Oh, Nan, have you doubted it ? ” 

Her hand stole gently into his ; she drew him down 
beside her. 

“ Dear Sydney, come here. Put your arm right round 
me — so. Now I can speak. I want to tell you something 
— many things. It is Lettice that has made me think I 
ought to say all this. Do you know, I have felt for a long, 
long time as if you had killed me — killed the best part of 
me, I mean — the soul that loved you, the belief in all that 
was good and true. That is why I have been so miserable. 
I did not know how to bear it. I thought that I did not 
love you ; but I have loved you all the time ; and now — 
now ” 

“ Now ? ” said Sydney. She fell that the arm on which 
she leaned was trembling like a leaf. 


372 


NAME AND FAME. 


‘‘Now I could love you better than ever — if I knew one 
thing — if I dared ask ” 

“ You may ask what you like,” he said, in a husky 
voice. 

“ It is not such a very great thing,” she said, simply ; 
“ it is only what you yourself think about the past : whe- 
ther you think with me that it is something to be sorry 
about, or something to be justified. I feel as if I could 
forget it if I knew that you were sorry ; and if you justified 
it — as some men would do — oh, I should never reproach 
you, Sydney, but I would much rather die ! ” 

There was a silence. His head was on the cushion be- 
side her, but his face was hidden, and she could gather 
only from his loud, quick breathing that he was deeply 
moved. But it was some time before he spoke. 

“ I don’t try to justify myself,” he said, at last. “ I was 
wrong — I know it well enough — and — well if you must have 
me say it — God knows that I am — sorry.” 

“ Ah,” she said, “ that is all I wanted you to say. Oh 
Sydney, my darling, can anything now but death come 
between you and me? ” 

And she drew his head down upon her bosom and let it 
rest there, dearer in the silent shame that bowed it before 
her than in the heyday of its pride. 

So they were reconciled, and the past sin and sorrow 
were slowly blotted out in waters of repentance. Before 
the world, Sydney Campion is still the gay, confident, suc- 
cessful man that he has always been — a man who does not 
make many friends, and who has, or appears to have, an 
overweening belief in his own powers. But there is a 
softer strain in him as well. Within his heart there is a 
chamber held sacred from the busy world in which he 
moves : and here a woman is enshrined, with all due 
observance, with lights burning and flowers blooming, as 
his patron saint. It is Nan who presides here, who knows 
the inmost recesses of his thought, who has gauged the ex- 
tent of his failures and weakness as well as his success, 
who is conscious of the strength of his regrets as well as 
the burdensome weight of a dead sin. And in her, there- 
fore, he puts the trust which we can only put in those who 
know all sides of us, the worst side even as the best : on 
her he has even come to lean with that sense of uttermost 


NAME AND FAME, 


373 


dependence, that feeling of repose, which is given to us 
only in the presence of a love that is more than half 
divine. 


CHAPTER XLL 

A FREE PARDON. 

St. James^ Hall was packed from end to end one summer 
afternoon by an eager mob of music lovers — or, at least, of 
those who counted themselves as such. The last Phil- 
harmonic Concert of the season had been announced •; and 
as one of its items was Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, the 
crowd was, as usual on such an occasion, a great and 
enthusiastic one. 

Even the dark little gallery near the roof, fronting the 
orchestra, was well filled, for there are music lovers (most- 
ly those whose purse is lean) who declare that, though the 
shilling gallery is hot, and close, and dark, there is in all 
the room no better place for hearing the great waves of 
sound rolled out by the orchestra from the Master’s mighty 
scores. And it was for this reason that Lettice Campion 
came up the narrow stairs that afternoon at ten minutes to 
three, and found, as she might have expected, that only a 
few seats against the wall remained empty. Into the near- 
est of these she dropped, rather Exhausted by her climb 
and the haste that she had made ; and then she noticed, as 
her eyes became accustomed to the dim light, that some 
one beside her had half turned round, and was looking 
earnestly into her face. 

‘‘Alan!” 

The color sprang into Lettice’s face : the roll of music 
that she carried dropped from her lap as she held out her 
hand. Alan returned her greeting, and then dived for her 
music, thus giving her a moment in which to recover her 
self-possession. When he came up again, she was still a 
little flushed, but she was smiling tranquilly. 


374 


ATAME AND FAME. 


“ I am so glad to see you,” she said simply. 

“ I don’t know what impelled me to come this afternoon. 
I never thought that I should have this happiness.” Then, 
in a lower tone, “ You don’t mind my being here ? You 
don’t want me to go away ? ” 

“ No, no, why should I ? It does not matter — here.” 

They had not seen each other at all for weeks, and had 
met only two or three times, and then for a few minutes 
only, since Alan left Bute Lodge in December. They cor- 
responded freely and frankly, but Lettice had decreed, in 
spite of some murmurs from Alan, that they should not 
meet. Scandal had been busy with her name, and, until 
Alan obtained his divorce, it seemed better to her to live 
a very retired life, seeing almost nobody, and especially 
guarding herself against accusations of any close associa- 
tion with Alan Walcott. 

“ I had just posted a letter to you before I came out,” 
he said. They were at the end of the last row of seats and 
could talk, before the music began, without any fear of 
being overheard. ‘‘ It is as I expected, Lettice. There 
are great difficulties in our way.” 

She looked an interrogation. 

“ The length oi dme that has elapsed is an obstacle. We 
cannot find any proof of worse things than drunkenness and 
brawling during the last year or two. And of the events 
before that time, when I know that she was untrue to me, 
we scarcely see how to obtain absolute proof. You must 
forgive me for mentioning these things to you, but I am 
obliged.” 

“ Yes, and there is no reason why you should not tell 
me everything,” she said, turning her quiet eyes upon him 
with a look of such perfect trust that the tumult in Alan’s 
mind was suddenly stilled. “ But you knew that there 
would be difficulties. Is there anything else? ” 

“ I hardly know how to tell you. She has done what I 
half expected her to do — she has brought a counter charge 
against me — against ” 

“Ah, I understand. All the more reason, Alan, why 
we should fight it out.” 

“ My love,” he said, in the lowest possible tone that 
could reach her ears, “ if you knew how it grieves me that 
you should suffer I ” 


NAME AND FAME. 


375 


“ But I am suffering with you,” she answered tenderly ; 
“ and don’t you think that I would rather do that than see 
you bear your suffering alone ? ” 

Here the first notes of the orchestra fell upon their ear, 
and the conversation had to cease. For the next hour or 
so they had scarcely time to do more than interchange a 
word or two, but they sat side by side rapt in a strange 
content. The music filled their veins with intoxicating 
delight; it was of a ’xind that Lettice rejoiced in exceed- 
ingly, and that Alan loved without quite knowing why. 
The Tannhauser Overture, the Walktiren-Ritt, two of 
Schubert’s loveliest songs, and the less exciting but more 
easily comprehensible productions of an earlier classical 
composer, were the chief items of the first part of the con- 
cert. Then came an interval, after which the rest of the 
afternoon would be devoted to the Choral Symphony. But 
during this interval Alan hastened to make the most of his 
opportunity. 

“ We shall have a bitter time,” he murmured in her ear, 
feeling, nevertheless, that nothing was bitter which would 
bring him eventually to her side. 

She smiled a little. “ Leave it alone then,” she said, 
half mockingly. “ Go your own way and be at peace.” 

“ Lettice ! I can never be at peace now without you.” 

“ Is not that very unreasonable of you ? ” she asked, 
speaking lightly because she felt so deeply. The joy of 
his presence was almost oppressive. She had longed for 
it so often, and it had come to her for these two short hours 
so unexpectedly, that it nearly overwhelmed her. 

“ No, dearest, it is most natural. I have nobody to love, 
to trust, but you. Tell me that you feci as I do, that you 
want to be mine — mine wholly, and then I shall figlit with 
a better heart, and be as brave as you have always been.” 

“ Be brave, then,” she said with a shadowy smile. “ Yes, 
Alan, if it is any help to you to know it, I shall be glad 
when we need never part.” 

“I sometimes wonder,” he miirmmred, ‘Gvhether that 
day will ever come ! ” 

“ Oh, yes, it will come,” she answered gently. “ I think 
that after our long days of darkness there is sunshine for 
us — somewhere — by and by.” 

And then the music began, and as the two listened to 
the mighty harmonies, their hands met and clasped each 


376 


JVAME AND FAME. 


Other under cover of the book which Lettice held, and 
their hearts seemed to beat in unison as the joyous choral 
music pealed out across the hall — 

“Freude, schdner Gdtterfunken, 

Tochter aus Elysium, 

Wir betreten feu^rtrunken, 

Himmlische, dein Heiligthum, 

Deine Zauber binden wieder, 

Was die Mode streng getheilt ; 

Alle Menschen werden B ruder. 

Wo dein sanfter Fltigel weilt.” 

‘‘ I feel,” said Alan, as they lingered for a moment in 
the dimness of the gallery when the symphony was over, 
and the crowd was slowly filing out into Regent Street 
and Piccadilly, “ I feel as if that hymn of joy were the 
prelude to some new and happier life.” 

And Lettice smiled in answer, but a little sadly, for she 
saw no happier life before them but one, which must be 
reached through tortuous courses of perplexity and pain. 

The dream of joy had culminated in that brief, impul- 
sive, unconscious transmigration of soul and soul ; but with 
the cessation of the music it dissolved again. The reali- 
ties of their condition began to crowd upon them as they 
left the hall. But the disillusion came gradually. They 
still knew and felt that they were supremely happy ; and 
as they waited for the cab, into which Alan insisted on 
putting her, she looked at him with a bright and grateful 
smile. 

“ I am so glad I saw you. It has been perfect,” she 
said. 

Pie had made her take his arm — more for the sake of 
closer contact than for any necessity of the crowd — and 
he pressed it as she spoke. 

“ It is not quite over yet,” he said. Let me take you 
home.” 

“ Thank you, no. Not to-day, Alan. See, there is an 
empty hansom.” 

He did not gainsay her, but helped her carefully into 
the cab, and, when she w^as seated, leaned forward to clasp 
her hand and speak a parting word. But it was not yet 
spoken when, with a sharp cry, Lettice started and cast 
herself in front of him, as though to protect him from a 
danger which he could not see. 


AND FAME. 


Vll 


In the confused press of men and women, horses and 
carriages, which filled the street at this hour from side to 
side, she had suddenly caught sight of a never-forgotten 
face — a hungry face, full of malice, full of a wicked exulta- 
tion, keen for revenge. 

Cora Walcott, crossing the road, and halting for a mo- 
ment at the central landing-place, was gazing at the people 
as they poured out of St. James’ Hall. As Alan helped 
Lettice into the hansom and bent forward to speak to her, 
she recognized him at once. 

Without a pause she plunged madly into the labyrinth 
of moving carriages and cabs ; and it was then that Let- 
tice saw her, less than three yards away, and apparently in 
the act of hurling a missile from her uplifted hand. 

It was all the work of an instant. The woman shrieked 
with impotent rage ; the drivers shouted and stormed at 
her ; men and women, seeing her danger, cried out in their 
excitement ; and, just as she came within reach of her 
husband’s cab, she was struck by the shaft of a passing 
brougham, and fell beneath the horse’s hoofs. 

It was Lettice’s hands that raised the insensible body 
from the mire. It was Alan who lifted her into an empty 
cab, and took her to the nearest hospital — whence she 
never emerged again until her last narrow home had been 
made ready to receive her. 

Cora did not regain consciousness before she died. 
There was no death-bed confession, no clearing of her 
husband’s name from the dishonor which she had brought 
upon it, no reawakening of any kind. Alan would have 
to go through the world unabsolved by any justification 
that she was capable of giving. But, with Lettice at his 
side, he was strong enough, brave enough, to hear Society’s 
verdict on his character with a smile, and to confront the 
world steadily, knowing what a coward thing its censure 
not unfrequently is, and how conscious courage and purity 
can cause it to slink away abashed. 

On a certain evening, early in the session of 1885, some 
half-dozen men were gathered together in a quiet angle of 
the members’ smoking-room at the Oligarchy Club. 

During the past day or two there had been unwonted 
jubilation in every corner of the Oligarchy, and with rea- 
son, as the Oligarchs naturally thought ; for Mr. Glad- 


378 


Name and fame. 


stone’s second Administration had suddenly come to an 
end. It had puzzled many good Conservatives to under- 
stand how that Administration, burdened by an accumu- 
lation of blunders and disasters, was able to endure so 
long ; but at any rate the hour of doom had struck at last, 
and jubilation was natural enough amongst those who 
were likely, or thought they were likely, to profit by the 
change. 

Sir John Pynsent and his friends had been discussing 
with much animation the probable distribution of the 
patronage which the see-saw of party government had now 
placed in the hands of the Conservative leader. Sir John, 
whose opinion on this subject was specially valued by his 
political associates, had already nominated the Cabinet 
and filled up most of the subordinate offices ; and he had 
not omitted to bestow a place of honor and emolument 
upon his ambitious relative, Sydney Campion. 

The good-natured baronet was due that evening at the 
house of Lord Montagu Plumley, and he hurried away to 
keep his appointment. When he had gone the conversa- 
tion became less general and more unrestrained, and there 
were even a few notes of scepticism in regard to some of 
Sir John’s nominations. 

“ Plumley is safe enough,” said Mr. Charles Milton. 
‘‘ He has worked hard to bring about this result, and it 
would be impossible for the new Premier to pass him over. 
But it is quite another matter when you come to talk about 
Plumley’s friends, or his friends’ friends. I for one shall 
be very much surprised if Campion gets the solicitorship.” 

“ He’s not half a bad sort,” said Tom Willoughby, “ and 
his name is being put forward in the papers as though 
some people thought he had a very good chance.” 

“ Ah, yes, we know how that kind of thing is worked. 
The point most in his favor is that there are not half-a- 
dozen men in Parliament good enough for the post.” 

“ What is the objection to him? ” 

“ I don’t say there is any objection. He is not a man 
who makes many friends : and I fancy some of his best 
cases have been won more by luck than by judgment. 
Then he has made one or two decidedly big mistakes. 
He will never be quite forgiven for taking up that prosecu- 
tion of Walcott for a purely personal object. I know the 
late Attorney was much put out when he found how he 
had been utilized in that affair.” 


J^AM£: AN-D FAME. 


379 


‘‘ Pynsent seems to think him pretty sure of the offer.” 

“Just so ; and if anyone can help him to it, Pynsent is 
the man. That marriage was the best thing Campion ever 
did for himself, in mere ways than one. He wants hold- 
ing in and keeping straight ; and his wife has him well in 
hand, as everybody can see ” 

They seem a very happy couple.” 

He is devoted to her, that is plain enough ; and I 
never thought he had it in him to care for anybody but 
himself. I met them last Easter at Dalton’s place. They 
seemed to hit off extremely well.” 

“ Oh, she has improved him ; there is no doubt about 
that. She is a very charming woman. What on earth 
does Dalton do with himself at Angleford ? ” 

“ He has become an orchard man on a grand scale,” 
said Willoughby “ Three years ago he planted nearly a 
hundred acres with the best young stocks he could find, 
and he says he has every apple in the Pomona worth eat- 
ing or cooking.” 

“ He has got over that affair with Campion’s sister, I 
suppose ? ” 

“ I don’t know that he has. Brooke Dalton’s one of 
the finest fellows in existence : there’s a heart in him some- 
where, and he does not easily forget. I came upon hina 
and Campion one day in the garden, and though they 
knew I was close to them they went on talking about her 
and her husband. ‘You were always too hard on her, 
Sydney,’ Brooke was saying, ‘ and now you have admitted 
as much.’ ‘ I don’t wish to be hard on her., but I can’t 
. bear that man,’ Campion said — meaning Walcott, of 
course. ‘ Well,’ Dalton said, ‘ I am perfectly sure that 
she would not have stuck to him through thick and thin, 
so bravely and so purely, unless she had been convinced 
of his innocence. As I believe in her, I am bound to be- 
lieve in him. Don’t you think so ? ’ he said, turning to me. 

‘ I hope every one who knows her will show her the re- 
spect and reverence that she deserves. Now that they 
have come back to England, Edith is going to call on her 
at once.’ Edith is his sister, you know : and she tells my 
mother that she called-^immediately.” 

“ How did Campion take it ? ” 

“ Very well, indeed. He said, ‘ You were alwaysa good 
fellow, Brooke, and I may have been mistaken.’ New 
thing to hear Campion owning up, isn’t it? ’* 


38 o 


mME AND FAME, 


“ So the Walcotts have come back ? ” said Milton, with 
some excitement. “ By Jove, I shall leave my card to- 
morrow. Of course, he was innocent. I knew all about 
it, for I defended him at the Old Bailey. No wonder 
Campion is uncomfortable about it.” 

The idea seemed to divert Milton very much, and he 
chuckled over it for two or three minutes. 

“ From what my mother says,” Willoughby continued, 
people seem disposed to take them up. Her books, 
you know, are awfully popular — and didn’t you see how 
well the papers spoke of his last poems? You mark my 
words — there will be a run upon the Walcotts by and by.” 

“ Just the way of the world ! ” said Charles Milton. 
“ Three or four years ago they would have lynched him. 
Poor devil ! I remember when I was about the only man 
in London who refused to believe him guilty.” 

“ One thing is plain enough,” said Tom Willoughby. 
“ He would have gone to the dogs long ago if it had not 
been for her. I have not come across many heroines in 
my time, though I have heard of plenty from other people ; 
but I am bound to confess that I never heard of one who 
deserved the name better than Mrs. Walcott. 

The world bestowed its free pardon upon Alan Walcott, 
and for the sake of her who had taught him to fight against 
despair and death he accepted graciously a gift which 
otherwise would have been useless to him. Inspired by 
her, he had built a new life upon the ruins of his past ; 
and if, henceforth, he lived and labored for the world, it 
was only with the new motives and the new energy which 
she had implanted in him. 

The house at Chiswick is now their own. There Alan 
and Lettice crown the joys of a peaceful existence by re- 
membering the sorrows of other days ; and there, in the 
years to come, they will teach their children the faith of 
human sympathy, the hope of human effort, and the charity 
of service and sacrifice. 


THE END. 


BY SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT WITH THE AUTHORS. 



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121. The Word and the Will. By James Payn 50 

122. Dumps. By Mrs. Louisa Parr- 50 

123. The Black Box Murder 50 

124. The Great Mill St. Mystery. By Adeline bargeant 50 

125 Between Lipe and Death. By Prank Barrett 50 

126. Name AND Fame. By Adeline Sargeant and Ewing Lester 50 

127. Dramas op Lipe. By George R. Sims 50 

128. Lover or Friend? By Rosa Nouchette Carey..* 50 

129. Famous or Inpamous. By Bertha Thomas 50 

130. The House OP Halliwell. By Mrs. Henry Wood 50 

131. Ruppino. By Ouida 50 

132. Alas 1 By Rhoda Broughton 50 

133. Basil and Annette. By B. L. Farjeon 50 

134. The Demoniac. By Walter Besant 50 

135. Brave Heart and True. By Florence Marryat 50 

136. Lady Maude’s Mania. By George Manville Fenn 50 

137. Marcia. By W. E. Norris 50 

138. Wormwood. By Marie Corelli 50 

139. The Honorable Miss. By L. T. Meade. . 50 

140. A Bitter Birthright. By Dora Russell . .Wy. 50 

141. A Double Knot. By George Manville Fenn 60 

142. A Hidden Foe By G. A. Henty 50 

143. Urith. By S. Baring-Gould to 

344 . Grayspoint. By Mrs. J. H, Riddell 60 


Any of the above sent postpaid, on receipt of price, by the publishers, 

UNITED STATES BOOK COMPANY. 

SUCCESSORS TO 

JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY, 

142 T0.160 WORTH STREET. NEW YORK. 


CO LG AT E S 


SOAPS & f 
PERFUMES 





T his PICTUKE, reproduced from a photograph, shows in the fore- 
ground peasant women gathering Jasmine Flowers, and those in the 
background, on ladders, picking Orange Flowers. The odors of these two 
flowers are exceedingly rich and fragrant. They are used by the skillful 
perfumer most successfully in combination with other odors, and when so 
used impart a refinement and delicacy to the bouquet which would be ' 
impossible to attain without them. 

It is the liberal use of these odors, and the skillful manner in which 
they are combined, that has helped to secure for Colgate & Co. the fore- 
most place among perfumers, and has created a demand from all parts of 
the world for their soaps and perfumes, the favorite of which is 

CASHMERE BOUQUET 






















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